


The Backup

by ashdeanmanns



Category: Black Widow (MCU), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Winter Soldier (MCU)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Marvel Cinematic Universe Fusion, Anxiety, Avengers Tower, Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Brainwashing, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Domestic Avengers, Hydra (Marvel), Hydra Peter Parker, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Going to Hell, Natasha Romanov Has Issues, Other, Peter Parker has PTSD, Peter Parker is Bucky Barnes's Biological Child, Peter Parker is Natasha Romanov's Biological Child, Postpartum Depression, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Natasha Romanov, Red Room (Marvel), Redemption, References to Depression, Suffering, Superfamily (Marvel), Tags May Change, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, Time Skips, Uncle Steve Rogers, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, buckynat - Freeform, winterwidow - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2020-05-14 11:38:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 34,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19272505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashdeanmanns/pseuds/ashdeanmanns
Summary: He can change everything, possibly even the world.-Romance in the Red Room was always forbidden. It was for children, for the weak, for the unfocused.Upon being able to walk, the result of a certain romance was used as a test subject for the alternate, originally unsuccessful Wolf Spider Ops Program. With one bite, he went from sick with hunger to lean with muscle, oblivious to aware, a commodity to a backup.At ten years old, he was given to a new instructor for deeper training. Little did the boy know that it would mean the beginning of the family he always longed for.He grew up hearing the phrase "Cut one head, two shall take its place." He was made to be one of the two to grow back, and despite now having a family, he could never forget it. He was there for when the man he idolized, his papa, needed help or had failed, and nothing else was keeping him alive.(Alternate Spiderman backstory, in which Peter is the son of the Winter Soldier and the Black Widow. HYDRA makes him into Spiderman, into the Winter Soldier's backup plan.)





	1. пролог | PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> My summary sucks, but I hate it when summaries give away the whole story.
> 
> I don't want to translate Russian wrong, so most of the Russian will be bolded and italicized. If I translate, I want to do it right or close to it. I don't know enough about Russian to translate it properly. Despite the fact that I'm part Russian...
> 
> This follows the MCU timeline and movies. It really goes into affect at Civil War.

**2011**

The Winter Soldier swore that darkness always spread like frost. Always. The asset believed someone could see it, watch it, just like he did every time he finished a mission. He had witnessed many lives die from colorful eyes as if they were dwindling fires, watched blood flow over his hands and soak into the fabric of his clothes. You could see evil in someone's face, but it could be gone in the blink of an eye--or it could stay, like the needles of a pine tree; hardened from battling the seasons, persistent to live.

The asset knew evil when he saw it. He knew a good person when he saw one, even if they did evil things.

That's what he was, even though he did not remember being good before he was the asset. He knew that he had had a life of before. Before everything.

His life had only one good thing; A girl of fire and will. She ignited a flame underneath his feet, shocked him with humanity. Suddenly, he remembered what it was like to feel human. He remembered, whenever he held her in his arms, that red ran in his veins. Not oil. He was not a machine.

Machines obeyed. Humans rebelled.

He wanted to refuse obedience. But how could he do that when fear was something he lived and breathed? He ran on it. It urged him to live for himself, but to also take lives for himself. He lived in a cage made from bullets and blades, that the girl with fiery red hair no longer resided near. She had disappeared with his memories, humanity, and will to live.

The agents had thrown him into a cage that housed a child. The boy must have been at least ten years old, if not younger. Like evil, the asset was able to track fear. The boy's face was seemingly devoid of emotion until he looked into his eyes. That was where the fear sat, as bright as the sun and as clear as the moon.

Looking into the young boy's eyes, a terrible feeling washed over him, one that he couldn't quite name. Guilt? No, he had not done anything to the boy. Sympathy? Maybe. Depends on the boy's backstory and how he got to hell.

Despite that, and whatever the unnamed feeling was, the boy looked worse for wear, and the asset still, for some reason, felt horrible. His face was covered in blood and dirt, his hair matted with both substances. His pants were loose around his legs but pulled snug around his waist, his shirt torn at the sleeves and frayed at the hem.

"Soldier, meet our Spider," the Superior said from the other side of the rusted bars. "Do you remember being an instructor for the unsuccessful Wolf Spider Ops program?"

" _ **Yes**_ ," was all he allowed himself to say. He vaguely remembered it, and the one boy who had lived. The boy had been released after being declared impossible. He would be much older than the boy that now stood in front of him.

"The Backup has been training since it could walk. We have gone along the same curriculum of the Wolf Spider and Black Widow Ops. You were an instructor for both programs, Soldier. Now it is time for a test. You have been tasked to oversee the backup's training from this point on."

The asset inclined his head, but did not take his eyes off the boy. The Wolf Spider.

"Soldier, advance. See what the kid can do."

He didn't want to. The boy didn't want him to either, it seemed, as he stumbled back. He chose to give in to what he was feeling--he was thinking that it was a mixture of pity and sympathy--and spat, " _ **I will not beat a child**_ **.** "

"Soldier. That was an order."

 _ **"**_ _ **I will not beat a child**_ ," he repeated. " ** _As I train with him, I will evaluate him. I am obviously stronger and more skilled than him, and the fight will be futile._ "**

The officer seemed to ponder that fact for a few moments. "If you don't, it will die. Think of it as saving your brat's life."

 _"'_ _ **My brat?**_ ' _"_

Leaning in close to the bars, the superior hissed, " _ **Be careful not to get too attached, Soldier.**_ Now, advance."

Reluctant and confused, the asset took a step forward. He froze as the boy jumped back. Catching the boy's eyes, he mouthed, **_Do you know who I am?_**

The boy nodded, his fearful eyes blown wide.

He inwardly sighed. No wonder he was scared.

He mouthed, _**Understand. I have to do this**_ _._

The boy nodded again.

The Winter Soldier advanced, as ordered.

||||||||||

The two had been escorted to the asset's housing after the fight--if you could even call it that. It was practically a slaughter, minus the kill--and the Backup had been tossed into the room before the asset stepped inside. The metal door was locked and completely sealed behind them. The boy had looked around, eyes landing on the single cot and the wooden chair across the room from the door, peering into the small bathroom, until he decided to look back at the asset.

He took a step toward him, hesitantly; the boy had done as expected and jumped back. The soldier quickly put his hands up, turning his hips and walking to the side, toward the open doorway leading to what he was barely able to call a bathroom. As technologies advanced, few things were brought into the department facility. The building was old, and it would always be old, and hot running water was not one of the things installed. There was a faucet in the wall, a drain in the floor, a metal bucket, and rags from old clothing that passed as washcloths.

He pulled the bucket from the corner and placed it under the faucet. He twisted the handle, and listened as the water hit the old metal. Once it was at least half full, he turned the faucet off and stepped into the doorway.

The boy had not moved from his spot, where he now allowed his face to show emotion. He looked terrified, and his eyes brimmed with tears. As they had fought, the soldier had realized what the Superior had told him. He was told not to get attached to his own child. The boy moved like him, had her button nose, and he swore he could see flecks of green hidden in the brown of his irises.

" _ **Let me help you?**_ " he asked, startling the boy into a jump. " _ **When was the last time you bathed?**_ "

The boy looked at him, his tearful eyes alight with confusion, his pursed lips going limp. He asked, "' _ **Bathed?**_ '" carefully pronouncing the word.

Sadness overwhelmed him. " _ **Come here. I promise, you can trust me.**_ "

A few tears fell free and slipped down his cheeks, leaving tracks in the blood and filth. " _ **They told me to trust them, and they hurt me**_."

He shook his head. " _ **I'm not asking you to trust them. I'm asking you to trust me. I swear to you, on my life, that I will not willingly hurt you. What I did before, I was forced. I had to, and I am so sorry for it**_."

The boy was still frozen, but his body was visibly relaxing. He was glad for it.

He wanted to tell the boy his name, but realized that he did not remember it. Instead, he started, carefully, " _ **Do you have a name?**_ "

"The Backup," he whispered, still not moving. "I'm only the Backup."

" _ **If you let me help you, I can help you find a name. Would you like that? Having a name? Only you and I would know it. It would be something just between us.**_ "

The boy swallowed, his eyes falling closed for a few moments. More tears found their way down his face. Eventually, he nodded, keeping his head bowed as he slowly started toward the bathroom.

" _ **Can you take off the shirt and pants? I don't want to get them wet. If you don't want to, you don't have to.**_ "

The boy shook his head. He started to raise his arms to pull his torn shirt off, but he winced and doubled in on himself.

He started to extend his hands toward him, but the boy flinched away from him. As the soldier tore his hands back, the boy's shoulder hit the stone wall and he fell in surprise. He opened his eyes again, looking up at him with his mouth hanging open.

He spoke slowly to the boy, easing himself to his knees; " _ **You have nothing to worry about,**_ bub _ **. It's okay. You're safe with me.**_ "

" _ **B-b-but--**_ " his bottom lip wobbled.

" _ **Let me help you. Has anyone offered to help you here?**_ "

He shook his head once.

The soldier smiled at him. It had been so long since he last smiled, but there it was, digging its way up from six feet under the dirt. It felt natural, like he had once done it often. " _ **That means it's something new. And this something new is good.**_ Let me help you."

With tears tracing their way down his face, he nodded, and the soldier slowly reached out to him again. The boy shook when he touched him, but he let him guide his arms into the shirt so it could easily be lifted off. The boy wouldn't let him remove his pants, he silently insisted on doing it himself.

The soldier put his hand in the middle of his chest as he looked the boy over. The only things the boy could call his own were barely his, and it was the two articles of clothing. He was covered in bruises, some old and irritated from the recent brawl, some new and a lively shade of blue. Blood wasn't just in his hair and on his face, it was all over him. His eyes followed the paths of scars, horrified at what had been done to him. His son.

He reached over, grabbing hold of the bucket and rags. He pulled them closer, careful to not let the metal scrape over the concrete floor. The boy watched every move he made, his body still shaking violently.

The soldier fished out a larger rag. He folded it in his hands as he asked, " _ **Do you know any names? Anything that you've heard?**_ "

" _ **I never paid...attention...to any,**_ " he said, carefully, watching his hands.

Done with the folding, he dipped the cloth into the water. He held his other hand out to the boy. " ** _Can I hold your arm?_** "

With a slight, untrusting glare, the boy unfurled his arm from his side and held it close to the soldier's hand. The soldier touched his wrist, only holding onto him with his fingertips. He took the cloth out of the water and squeezed slightly before bringing it to his arm. " _ **This'll be cold.**_ " He touched the cloth to his wrist, and he felt the boy's muscles tense all through his arm. He immediately began to relax after getting over the initial shock.

"What do you...What do you think could be my name?" he asked, switching to English for the first time.

As he gently scrubbed the blood and dirt from the inside of his forearm, he corrected him with a soft voice, "What your name could be." After a few seconds pause, he said, "Benjamin?"

The boy shook his head. " ** _I like it, but no._** "

"Daniel? William? Ethan?"

He shook his head.

"Patrick? Matthew?"

" ** _I like that sound. That first sound_**."

As he rinsed the washcloth in the water, he asked, "You want a name that starts with P?"

The boy nodded, turning from the soldier's hands to look at his face. "Yes."

The boy followed his gaze back to his hands as his arm was turned over. "How about Peter?"

The boy immediately looked up again. He copied the look that had been on the soldier's face. The smile reached his broken brown eyes. "Peter."

The soldier nodded. "Peter. That's just for us, okay? To them, you are the Backup. To me and you, you're Peter."

"Just for us," he repeated. Before the soldier could speak, Peter asked, "Do you have a name?" his voice light from the smile.

The soldier froze momentarily, before he shook his head. "At one point, I did. But I don't remember. Sometimes I do, but not often."

" _ **What do they call you?**_ "

"The asset. The soldier. But I wasn't always that."

Peter was silent, staring down at the washcloth. It was covered in blood and grime. "What can I call you? Just for us."

He tried to think of names a child called their father. It had never applied to him, so he never tried to hold onto that memory. He clawed his way through his brain, searching for the simple words. "Dad? Papa?"

Peter looked up at his face, forced back into confusion. "They told me I don't have one. A dad. A...father. A mother, either. They would..." he shook his head, at a loss for words.

"Taunt you?" the soldier guessed.

"What is that?"

He thought for a few moments, trying to think of a simple explanation. "Imagine someone shoving you around. They were doing that, but not with their hands. They did it with their words. They wanted to make you angry."

He nodded. "They taunted me with it. They called me orphan. Unwanted."

" _ **You're not unwanted. We wanted you, so badly. They kept you from me,**_ " he explained. " _ **I thought you were dead. We both did. Or we wouldn't have allowed them to ever touch you.**_ "

"What do I call my mother?" he asked, his voice quieter than it had been. He didn't look at the soldier as he spoke, as the soldier swished the cloth around in the water beside them.

"Well, what are you going to call me?"

"I like the sound of papa."

"Then she would probably be called 'mama.'" He squeezed the washcloth before bringing it to Peter's face, gently pulling it over his cheek. "Usually, those names go together. Like mom and dad. Mother and father. Mama and papa."

"Just for us?" he asked again.

After a few seconds, he inclined his head. " _ **Just for you and me, bub.**_ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "And all the people say  
> You can't wake up, this is not a dream  
> You're part of a machine, you are not a human being  
> With your face all made up, living on a screen  
> Low on self esteem, so you run on gasoline  
> I think there's a flaw in my code  
> These voices won't leave me alone."  
> GASOLINE  
> HALSEY
> 
> "All we do is play it safe  
> All we do is live inside a cage  
> All we do is play it safe  
> All we do, all we do."  
> ALL WE DO  
> OH WONDER
> 
> "Hello, Darkness, my old friend  
> I've come to talk to you again."  
> THE SOUND OF SILENCE  
> DISTURBED
> 
> "What do you want from me? Why don't you run from me?  
> What are you wondering? What do you know?  
> Why aren't you scared of me? Why do you care for me?  
> When we all fall asleep, where do we go?"  
> BURY A FRIEND  
> BILLIE EILISH
> 
> "My fire burned them out  
> But we will not be moved by it  
> We will not be moved by it."  
> DNA  
> THE KILLS
> 
> "Head in the dust, feet in the fire  
> Labor on that midnight wire  
> Listening for that angel choir  
> You got nowhere to run."  
> SOLDIER  
> FLUERIE
> 
> "Who's in the shadows?  
> Who's ready to play?  
> Are we the hunters?  
> Or are we the prey?"  
> GAME OF SURVIVAL  
> RUELLE
> 
> "I, I can't get these memories out of my mind  
> And some kind of madness has started to evolve  
> I, I tried so hard to let you go  
> But some kind of madness is swallowing me whole."  
> MADNESS  
> MUSE
> 
> "Another head hangs lowly  
> Child is slowly taken  
> And the violence causes silence  
> Who are we mistaken?"  
> ZOMBIE  
> BAD WOLVES
> 
> "I'm taking it slow  
> Feeding my flame  
> Shuffling the cards of your game."  
> EYES ON FIRE  
> BLUE FOUNDATION
> 
> "The devil's on your shoulder  
> The stranger's in your head  
> As if you don't remember  
> As if you can forget  
> It's only been a moment  
> It's only been a lifetime  
> But tonight you're a stranger  
> Some silhouette."  
> SILHOUETTE  
> AQUILO
> 
> "Run boy run! The sun will be guiding you  
> Run boy run! They're dying to stop you  
> Run boy run! This race is a prophecy  
> Run boy run! Break out from society."  
> RUN BOY RUN  
> WOODKID
> 
> "And all the kids cried out,  
> 'Please stop, you're scaring me'  
> I can't help this awful energy  
> God damn right,  
> You should be scared of me  
> Who is in control?"  
> CONTROL  
> HALSEY
> 
> "I'll follow you down to the eye of the storm  
> Don't worry, I'll keep you warm  
> I'll follow you down  
> While we are passing through space  
> I don't care if we fall from grace."  
> I'LL FOLLOW YOU  
> SHINEDOWN
> 
> "I made myself at home  
> In the cobwebs and the lies  
> I'm learning all your tricks  
> I can hurt you from inside."  
> THE DEVIL WITHIN  
> DIGITAL DAGGERS
> 
> "Your heart hits like a drum  
> The chase has just begun."  
> MONSTERS  
> RUELLE
> 
> "Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found  
> Yeah, I think that I might break  
> Lost myself again and I feel unsafe."  
> BREATHE ME  
> SIA
> 
> "Inside the looking glass  
> I see you looking back."  
> CAN YOU HEAR ME?  
> FLEURIE
> 
> "With everything on the line  
> Watch the world ignite."  
> REVOLUTION  
> UNSECRET
> 
> "I'm not looking to be found  
> Just want to feel (un) lost."  
> (UN) LOST  
> THE MAINE
> 
> "'Cause, I built a home  
> For you  
> For me  
> Until it disappeared  
> From me  
> From you  
> And now, it's time to leave and turn to dust."  
> TO BUILD A HOME  
> THE CINEMATIC ORCHESTRA
> 
> "When the tears come streaming down your face  
> 'Cause you lose something you can't replace  
> When you love someone but it goes to waste  
> What could it be worse?"  
> FIX YOU  
> COLDPLAY
> 
> "I don't wanna wake it up  
> The devil in me."  
> DEVIL IN ME  
> HALSEY
> 
> "Mother, I know  
> That you're tired of being alone  
> Dad, I know you're trying  
> To fight when you feel like flying."  
> UNSTEADY  
> X AMBASSADORS


	2. один | ONE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A training session, and a heart to heart.

**2011**

The soldier had managed to get the boy new clothes and food, washed and entirely unafraid. The boy trusted him enough to sleep while the soldier remained awake, staring at the metal door on the opposite side of the cot.

He still could not believe that his child was alive. He could, however, believe that the K.G.B had lied. Nothing was more important than their precious Black Widow.

And being related to the Black Widow, the soldier wasn't surprised when they were both immediately thrown into training. It was the same cage from only two days before. The three agents that had escorted them made sure all exits were locked, and then left the room. One remained, standing in the doorway as still as a statue.

The soldier turned back around to look at Peter, who has wiped his face clean of emotion. His eyes shone with worry and anxiousness. The soldier couldn't blame him for feeling that way.

" _ **Backup**_ ," he said, looking him in the eyes. Peter locked their gazes together. " _ **From your evaluation the other day, you need to work on your defense. A fight is made up of a mix of offense and defense, from each attacker.**_ " He clenched his right hand into a fist, bending his arm so the fist was by his chest. " ** _A dodge or a block_** **** _ **,**_ " he jabbed at him, aiming beside his cheek. Peter caught his wrist as he flinched to the side, eyes going wide, " _ **could save your life**_ _ **.**_ "

Peter's face set into an expression of determination, still holding on to the asset's wrist. His eyes narrowed, his mouth pressed into a tense but eased line, and his eyes screamed _I will prove myself._

The soldier could relate to that feeling.

Peter bent his knees, pivoted on his feet, and pushed his elbow into the pressure point underneath his bicep before spinning himself out of the way. He quickly recouped as the soldier judged his next move. He wanted to go easy on him, but did not want it to be overly noticeable.

He aimed a push kick at Peter's chest. Peter jerked to the side, avoiding the blow. He wrapped his arms around his leg, swung himself underneath and pushed himself up off the floor. He crossed his legs around the soldier's neck, and swung himself around so he was braced on the soldier's back, using the momentum to pull him to the ground. Once on the ground, Peter bent his legs to pin the soldier's arms and hooked his arm underneath his chin, craning his neck.

" ** _Black Widow move?_** " he asked, grinning.

" ** _Yeah_**."

"Could use a little more refining," he said, casually, before he dug his fingers into the soft tissue behind Peter's knees. He yelled, letting him go and pushing himself away.

The soldier quickly flipped himself onto his him, pulling his bent leg up beside him so he could push himself onto his knees. He grabbed Peter's ankle and pulled him back as he pushed himself up. He placed his hand on Peter's collar, his palm flat against his thin chest.

Even though he was following orders, training the boy, he felt wrong. Not just because the kid was his son, but because of something deeper he no longer remembered.

He removed his hand and stood up, holding it down to his son. Peter took it, helping out as the soldier pulled him up. " _ **Do you know who trained you before me?**_ " he asked, releasing his hand.

" _ **A few of the guards. A Black Widow named Yelena Belova.**_ "

The name struck a chord, and he took a step back. "Is she still here?"

He shook his head. "No. She left. She did her time, she said."

He nodded in response, pressing his hands flat against his pants. "I don't remember much, but she was a bad person. _**Did you trust her?**_ "

" _ **When I was little. Not anymore. Haven't for years.**_ "

" _ **Good.**_ " He regained his composure, inhaling and exhaling deeply. He opened his mouth to speak, but wasn't given the chance.

"Soldier!"

The pair froze, but neither looked away from each other.

"The Backup's previous trainers are none of your business." Metal clanked as the cage was opened. "You are meant to train him, not question him."

" _ **The** **information is useful. Depending on who trained him, I would know what he's been taught and how to expand on it.**_ "

"Yelena Belova is none of your concern."

_Blond hair hung limply in front of a girl's face,_ _frizzy_ _from the heat of the room. She growled at the girl she was opposing, and slashed at her eyes with her nails._

_Worry jump-started his heart, and he darted forward as the opponent stepped back, avoiding the feral attacks. He put his back to the girl with red hair, putting an arm around Yelena's front and pushing her down onto her back. "_ _ **You are a Black Widow. Not a cat. Act like it.**_ "

"Soldier, what the hell are you looking at?" a voice rang, vibrating in his skull.

" _ **It should _have been me, not her._** "_

 _Lia_ , his mind reminded him. _You called her Lia._

His double-layered reality returned to one when a slap cracked across his face, pushing his head to the side. With that slap, the nickname ran away from him, and he suddenly felt empty.

" _ **What do we do with him?**_ " one of the agents asked. The asset sneered in anger, knowing what was going to be discussed.

"Wait. We'll wipe him tomorrow morning. Give them another half hour in here, then take them back." The red-capped officer pushed through the agents to leave the cage, and the guards followed suit. The cage was locked, an agent remained at the door, and, beyond the red mark on the soldier's cheek and Peter's horrified expression, it was like the officer had never stepped into the room.

||||||||||

Peter laid on the cot, curled up into a ball, facing toward the soldier.

"Peter?" he asked, wanting the boy's attention.

After an aching moment of silence, he said with a crack in his voice, "Papa?"

The asset flicked his gaze away from the door, landing on Peter's vaguely outlined form. He could just barely see him through the darkness, only enough for the assurance that he had not disappeared, that the soldier had not, in fact, made him up.

As if knowing what the soldier wanted to discuss, he whispered, "What do they do to you?" His voice sounded wet and strained, like he was scared or on the verge of tears.

The soldier sighed, pushing himself up from the chair. He took the few steps to the cot and sat down on the floor, putting his arm on the other side of the pillow, beside Peter's head. He leaned his head into his knuckles, his face close to his son's. He asked, "Why do you want to know that?"

" _ **They are mean to me. Are they mean to you, too?**_ "

" _ **You saw what happened earlier. I think you know**_ ** _._** "

Peter shifted, moving closer to the soldier, his hair brushing his bicep and shoulder. "The officer hit you."

"They've hit you, too, I have no doubt," he whispered, sadly. Reluctantly, he said, "It's just the environment we're in. We can't help it. We can't let it faze us, kid."

" _ **But you're the Winter Soldier! You're stronger than any of them! They always talk about you**_."

"And what would you hear?"

"Some of them are really scared of you. Others just see you as...a lot of unkind things. Do you know what they say about you?"

He nodded, glancing away from Peter so he couldn't see his face. If this went further, he'd be back in the chair for sure. "Yeah. I know what they say." A muscle in his cheek twitched and he firmly pressed his lips together. "Peter, there's a lot about me that you don't understand, and it's hard to grasp. What they do to me is beyond what they have ever done to you. You need to know, sooner rather than later. What is going to happen tomorrow morning will effect you, too."

"Is it why you don't remember your name?"

He wet his lips before saying, "They take my memories. When I met your mother, they didn't know much about me, and I was able to pretend that I wasn't having issues. She started doing the same thing. We were both avoiding treatment so we could be together. When they figured out about us, they tore us apart and tortured us with it. Now, if I remember anything of her, it's just a woman with fiery red hair. No name, no face, just that she was there."

"How did you remember me?"

"When the Superior suggested you were my son, what little I could remember of her triggered the memory of you. Of losing you. And remembering you triggered more of her."

He suddenly grinned. "Can you tell me more about her?"

He sighed. "Then we have to get back to the point. Alright?"

Peter nodded his head eagerly, the grin never changing.

"I was an instructor for the Black Widow Ops Program. She was a Black Widow. The very best--still is, in my mind. I trained her, and she stood out from the other girls. I decided that I had to know her. Through that, we fell in love, broke rules, risked our lives, and had you. That was when we decided that we had to leave." The soldier was plagued by a smile like any other, hands on his chest that pushed him into another room, a kiss that lit him up from the inside. He was barely aware of the corner of his mouth curling up in a vague smile of his own. "I don't remember how, but we got caught just outside of the city. We were so close, but so far at the same time." He paused, a thought having popped into his head. " _ **Have you ever seen the sun, kid?**_ "

" _ **The sun?**_ "

" _ **It's in the sky. Outside.**_ "

" ** _I've never been outside. What's the sun?_** "

" _ **It is...**_ " he wracked his brain to remember astronomy. He knew this, the information came and went every now and then. "It's a ball of gas in space, millions of miles away. It lights up the world. Our world. You've seen fire, right?"

He nodded, staying silent.

"It's a big ball of fire. Is that easier to imagine?"

He nodded his head again. "What else is there?"

"In space, there's tons of things. Moons, stars. Planets. Completely different galaxies."

"I wish I could see all that."

Carefully, he said, "One day. One day you'll get to see them, and I'll be right beside you, pointing out all the constellations for you."

Peter remembered the point of the conversation. "How do they take your memories, papa?"

"They have a giant chair that they strap me to. It...it shocks my brain, and they do it for a long enough period that I forget everything that makes me your papa. That makes me...me. They've implanted certain technologie that let them manipulate me. There are words that are used to make me into their asset, instead of just being some guy who has no memory. Since your mother and I were caught, they do it more often. Every few months, at least, or as needed. Right now, they can tell it's needed." His voice broke at the end of his sentence, and he cursed himself as he pushed his face into his arm, Peter's hair ticking his jaw.

"After tomorrow morning, you won't remember me?" The lonely, lost tone in Peter's voice caused tears to suddenly build in his eyes. The soldier had only ever had one person to rely on, but she had known how to work around the brainwashing. Peter was new to this, young, and he wasn't prepared for that severity.

"You can try to make me remember. It-It won't work for a little while, but it'll eventually start to help. You can't hold back in training, because I won't be able to. I could kill you if they told me to."

Peter rolled over, wrapping his arms around the soldier's shoulders, pressing his teary-eyed face into his throat. At hearing a choked-back sob, the soldier put his arms around Peter, set his chin on Peter's hair, and closed his eyes; willing himself not to break down to dust.


	3. два | TWO

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A (protective) wakeup call, an enhancement, and his first mission.

**2014**

Peter woke up to his papa's hand wrapped around an agent's throat, lifting them off the ground. His sleep-blurred vision had long been conditioned out of him, so he always woke up alert and ready to go. In that moment, Peter was thankful for that. He immediately threw himself off the cot, grappling at the metal arm. He hung from it, trying to pull it away from the agent. "Papa, no! This isn't a mission, let them go!"

The soldier didn't reply, just deepened his glare and squeezed their throat even harder.

"I'm begging you, let them go! Be better than them!" he insisted. He swung his legs up and attempted to throw himself back down, pulling desperately on the arm. His feet stuck down on the floor, and he used that leverage to ground him as he pulled even harder. "Please! Don't do it for them, do it for me!"

The agent dropped to the floor, coughing up a lung, and Peter landed on his feet, his hands slipping down along his papa's arm to clasp his metal fingers.

"It's okay." He tensed when another agent grabbed his shoulders, trying to pull him back. Were they going after him? He nodded his head, mostly to assure himself, taking a deep breath. "Yeah. It's okay. It'll be fine." He let the agents pull him from the room and bolt the door behind them. He winced when he heard metal on metal, arm against door, and a feral shout followed behind.

Peter stayed silent, remaining still as the agent holding his arm used his radio to call in backup. " _ **The asset is erratic. What would you like us to do?**_ "

The radio made a static, buzzing sound, and Peter willed himself not to make a face. " _ **Tase him. Get him unconscious.**_ "

" _ **Can we use the trigger word?**_ "

" _ ** _We need to ship them out in two hours_** **** **.** "_

 _Ship them out?_ Peter's heart tightened. _What does that mean for us? For me?_

" _ **Yes, sir**_ **** _ **.**_ " The agent slipped the radio into his belt, turning the four others. " _ **More are coming--wait for them to open the door. I'll be back soon." He hauled Peter away, pushing him in front of him. "Stay quiet, if you know what's best for you. We wouldn't want a little one like you to be seated in the chair, now would we?**_ "

Peter fastened his lips together. He knew what the chair meant.

He was led to a room he had never been in before. A scientist waited inside, sitting on a stool beside a large, confining chair.

" _ **Sit** **.**_ "

He did as ordered, taking his place in the chair.

" _ **We are making you into a real spider.**_ " The scientist showed Peter two metal cuffs before setting them in his lap. " _ **Put them on so the button is in your palm.**_ "

Peter picked one up, studying it as he moved to put it on. The part that would sit below the heel of his hand was thick, seemingly hollow, an antennae-like part sticking out, a button on the end of it. Below the button, there was an opening that led through the long metal piece to the main part of the cuff.

He pushed it on over his hand, contorting his hand to fit it over his knuckles.

" _ **We made it adjustable,**_ " the scientist added. He picked up the other one, and unclipped the thinner section of the cuff. He held it back out to the Backup.

Peter nodded his head in understanding. He took the cuff from his outstretched hand, putting the cuff in place around his wrist before setting his forearm down along his thigh, pinning the cuff so he could clip it back in place.

" _ **Press the button**_."

Again, he did as told. He held one hand out, using the other to press down on the button. White webbing slung out from the device, sticking to the back of the door.

Peter couldn't help the grin that spread to his face. _That's so cool!_

 _" **See? Real spider.**_ "

He nodded in agreement. " _ **Real spider, definitely**_ **.** "

||||||||||

Peter bit down on his tongue and focused on the fact that his boot laces were tied too tight. He couldn't look at him. He couldn't speak to him. He wasn't his father.

Peter kept his gun propped between his legs. The end of the barrel was against the floor, the stock in his hands, his knees and feet holding the gun steady. Meanwhile, the soldier held his own at the ready--metal hand around the fore-end, the stock tucked under his arm for the time being, his other hand casually set on the trigger region.

Peter hadn't been briefed. He had been shoved into a van what seemed to be days ago, one that was entirely void of windows despite the windshield, but a wall separated the two assassins from the front seats. Peter had no clue where he was or what he was supposed to do. He had half the mind to ask the stone-cold soldier beside him, but the other part of him knew better, that he wouldn't reply even if he had provoked a conversation.

Feeling like his blood was vibrating, his patience finally burned out. He turned his head to the soldier, trying to plan his words. " _ **Mister? Soldier?**_ "

The asset turned his head slightly, acknowledging him.

" _ **What exactly are we doing out here?**_ "

He turned away, returning to his previous position. " _ **Invade, then clean up the edges.**_ "

" _ **Do you not know anything else?**_ " Peter pressed further, trying to keep the emotion in his voice under control. He wanted his papa, not the ice sculpture that was left behind.

" ** _Khabarovsk_**."

It felt like hours had passed between hearing the city's name and the back doors opening. Light flooded the back of the van, outlining the weapons and the two bodies.

Peter was mesmerized by the world behind the agents' backs. His eyes locked in on what he had heard to be the sky. It was cold and muted, not the vast expanse of bright blue that his papa had told him about. He had always thought that the outside world was going to be for him what fairytales were for other kids. Stories to hold on to, that frame your childhood and enrich your mind, but the contents were never to be seen.

" _ **Backup! Look alive!**_ "

Peter pushed himself up and followed the soldier, hoping out of the back of the van. He never looked away from the backdrop, now finally able to take it all in. The field was covered in a blanket of white. Flakes of snow--he had only heard about snow once--fell from the blue-grey sky, moving to join their friends on the ground. Peter turned around, looking over the other side of the van, and, caught up entirely in the moment, gasped.

What else could have been the sun?

||||||||||

It was now dark, the sky having turned a deep blue above the city lights, and all Peter could think about besides the blood under his gloves was that he desperately wanted to see the stars before returning to base. He couldn't get the dream of his papa pointing out constellations, but he could at least see them. He needed to see them.

" _ **Run into the girl. Offer to buy her something at a stand across the street. Just keep her away from the scene**_ ** _._** " One of the handling agents fixed the collar of his coat. Peter had never had a coat before. It was warm and dry, and smelled like things he had never smelled before. It didn't smell like blood and death, and those were the only things that really mattered to him. " ** _If you don't do your job, the asset can't do his. Understand?_** "

The soldier stayed still as a handler wrapped a wine-purple scarf around his neck and face, covering the bottom half of his face just as the normal mask would. The scarf tumbled down along the long auburn coat he had been given.

Peter forced himself to avert his eyes from the half-undercover clothing his papa wore. The coat hid everything deadly about him. The leather, the buckles and straps, the rifle strapped to his right hip and the emergency knives sheathed along his legs.

Peter felt strange in the unfamiliar clothing he had been given to change into. He had never worn this much at once. He felt like he was wasting it. Like it should have gone to someone else, someone who deserved it more than him. What did he deserve? He was a killer with the blood still under his gloves. He didn't even deserve having his papa.

The handler pulled Peter's scarf up over his nose before saying, " ** _You're ready. Now walk._** "

The soldier slung his hidden metal arm over Peter's shoulders, pulling him close as he moved to walk down the street. Peter followed suit, attempting to remember that, despite the lack of memory and emotion, he was still in his papa's embrace.

Peter barely knew what was going on, but he knew enough to gather the entirety of the mission. He was distracting someone who could easily get in the way, while the soldier found a high up place in the shadows to shoot someone down.

They walked around the city for what felt to be only a few minutes. Peter was absolutely enamored by the world around him. The people, the buildings, the lights, everything. It was all beautiful, more than he had ever been able to imagine. The soldier squeezing his shoulder was what tore him from his trance. " ** _12 o'clock_** ** _. Curly brown hair, purple and white coat. That's who you go to._** "

Peter nodded his head, focusing in on the scene. From what he could see, especially when the girl turned her head, she was pretty. He had never had the privilege to look at something pretty. She walked beside an older, taller man, loyally staying by his side.

The soldier pulled him closer for a few moments, craning his neck down to put his mouth just above Peter's ear. " _ **Don't fail, Backup**_." He let him go when Peter internally flinched, the two of them parting ways.

Peter continued walking forward, shoving his hands into his pockets. He was trying to figure out how to do this. He couldn't just run into her head-on. He'd lower his head, so he obviously couldn't see them. Run his shoulder into hers. He could try to catch her if she fell too hard, but he couldn't succeed because then the performance could be perceived as planned.

He took a few minutes to subtly catch up with her. He walked just to her left,  his shoulder overlapping with hers if you looked at the two from behind. He quickened his pace again, coming up behind her. He stepped on the ankle of her boot before running into her full-on. The two both yelped, and Peter tried to catch her. She flailed as she went down, which he hadn't expected her to do, and her glove came off in his hand. The man turned around at the commotion, glaring at Peter.

Peter pulled down his scarf, showing his face. He had learned that showing your face gained trust. Why would a killer show their face to the public, if they didn't want to be found? He exclaimed, acting quick, " _ **I'm**_ _ **so sorry! I wasn't looking where I was going**_." He held his hand out for her to take. " _ **Are you okay, miss?**_ "

She giggled at the name, accepting the hand he held down for her. He pulled her up to her feet, holding his arms out to her in case she was unsteady. " _ **I'm**_ _ **fine. Thank you for helping me up**_." She wiped the snow off her coat, which was now brown from the slush that had been on the street. She frowned at the stain.

" _ **Can**_ _ **I**_ _ **buy something for you?**_ " he offered, holding out her glove. " _ **As an apology for bumping into you and ruining your coat**_."

The girl turned to the man who was looking at the scene, his face sheltered. " _ **Is that okay?**_ "

The man studied Peter for a few moments before saying, strictly, " ** _Only spend a few minutes. I'll wait right here._** "

" ** _Thank you, papa! We'll be back!_** " She took Peter's hand and shoved the glove into her coat pocket, running across the street toward the stands that stood, lit up, at the end of the block. As he kept in pace with her, what she had said settled in.

_Papa._

They were killing her father.

" ** _What is your name?_** " the girl asked, looking into his eyes.

" _ **Peter.**_ **_And yours?_** "

" _ **Elina**_."

He smiled. " ** _You have a beautiful name, Elina._** "

Red immediately pooled on her cheeks and she looked away, smiling shyly. " ** _I--Thank you, Peter._** "

Peter pulled her to a stop beside a flower vendor. He said, to grab the vendor's attention, " ** _Hello!_** "

The man inside turned around. He smiled sweetly at the two teenagers. " ** _What can_** ** _I_** ** _do for you, boy? Flower for the girl?_** "

He chuckled. " ** _Read my mind._** "

" ** _How about this one?_** " He pulled out a blue flower that Peter didn't know the name of, of which was held in a clear, crinkly wrapper. " ** _A_** _ **maryllis. The blue matches her eyes.**_ "

Peter smiled when the girl put her face in her hands, attempting to cover the blush. " ** _How much, sir?_** "

" ** _Just two rubles._** "

Peter pulled the coins from his pocket, holding them out to the vendor. The man took them, holding the flower out to Peter. " ** _Thank you, sir._** " He grabbed the girl's hand again, quickly pulling her back the way they came. He bowed extravagantly, holding out the flower. " ** _For you._** "

She giggled at his play, but accepted the blue amaryllis. " ** _Thank you. You're too sweet._** " She leaned toward him, pressing her lips to his cheek.

He had no idea what that meant, but he knew it was important. His heart swelled and he felt an unfamiliar heat rush to his face. But the feeling was small compared to the dread that was heavy in his bones. How could he do this? What if he was her, and people were conspiring to kill his own father? He'd be wrecked.

" ** _Come on, let's run back. Your papa's waiting._** "

She groaned playfully, but she and Peter ran back down the street. She was running to meet her father's demand, but Peter was trying to outrun a gunshot.

The two teenagers slowed to a stop beside the man. Elina said again, " ** _Thank_** ** _you_** ** _, Peter. Really._** "

" ** _It was the least I cou--_** " The gunshot rang. Elina screamed, jumping into Peter, who was closest to her.

Peter heard the man grunt in pain. He looked up in time to watch him collapse onto the snow-and-slush covered ground, the bloody bullet hole placed just above his ear.

His own heartbeat drowned out Elina's screaming and crying. He couldn't save him. He ruined her life.

_What was the point?_

||||||||||

Peter shrieked, shaking from pain and exhaustion. The soldier looked down at him with dead eyes, his hand heavy on the handle of the knife that he had pushed through Peter's shoulder.

" ** _You jeopardized the mission!_** " the Superior told him.

Peter hiccupped, his breath repeatedly hitching in his throat. The knife was pulled from his shoulder, and he grunted in response.

" ** _The mission could have been ruined._** "

" ** _But it wasn't!_** " he shouted back, not able to stifle the reply. The metal fist connected with his stomach, the force causing him to double over. Blood dripped over his bottom lip, spilled down his chest from the wound on his shoulder. He said, not thinking, "The mission was still completed. Nothing went wrong. I did what you asked, but I couldn't keep her away from him for very long."

" ** _Backup. You knew your mission. It was easy. Keep her away from the scene._** "

Peter was silent. Metal pounded into his face. Blood spattered the cement below him, and he could already feel his cheek and eye swelling. _How much longer was this going to go on?_

"You're training all day for the next week, before you're being sent out again. Get in the right mind, or we will put the right mind in you."

Peter bowed his head, never having felt more empty. " _ **Yes, sir.**_ "


	4. три | THREE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Training, the highway, "I knew him," and once again alone.

**2015**

Their temporary housing in America was bigger than what Peter knew from being a child. And, because the building was not as old as the bases in Siberia, there was hot water. That was something he had never experienced before.

Peter twisted the knife between his fingers before grasping the handle in his palm, bringing his fist close to his face and aiming the point of the blade at his papa.

"Don't aim the blade too high. You know this."

Peter shifted his fist slightly so the blade was pointed straight in front of him. He threw his arm out, straightening his elbow, slashing the air in front of him. He shifted his weight onto his left foot, turned his foot to follow the direction of the knife. He braced his arms against his chest, raising his right foot to kick his papa in the gut. He immediately placed both feet on the floor, advancing with the knife. He slashed the air in front of him, careful not to lean too far forward.

His papa leaned back, avoiding the blade before catching the next slash. His hand wrapped around Peter's arm, and he twisted his wrist so he would lose the strength in his hand. He caught the knife as it fell and twisted it to stab at Peter's face.

Peter leaned to the side, turning and pulling his wrist out of the tight hold, just the way he had been taught when he was little. He raised his arm and blocked the next swipe, battered at his torso, before dropping to the floor to roll away. He pushed himself back to his feet, one hand on the ground in front of him. He quickly balanced as his papa advanced on him, leaning back slightly as he shot a strand of webbing at him from each wrist. The webs wrapped around his wrists, encasing the knife, and he pulled the heavier man to him as he pushed himself forward. He met the soldier in the middle, releasing the webs as he kicked him in the chest, jumping off into a backflip. His feet broke his fall, and he steadied himself on one knee.

His papa stumbled back a few steps. Shaking his head, he said, "That was fine."

When Peter picked up the disappointed tone, he said, "We've been doing this almost every day for years, papa. Only this." He pushed himself to his feet, standing up and reaching out for him.

Papa looked back at him and sighed. "I know, bub. I'm not disappointed in you, I'm disappointed in our situation. You're doing great. I know you're tired and restless, but we need to keep going. It's what keeps us together."

"I don't like hurting you."

The soldier smiled endearingly, reaching forward to clasp the side of Peter's neck. He pulled their faces close and pressed his forehead to the young boy's. "You're not hurting me. I promise. You could never hurt me, remember?"

" ** _Because you're invincible?_** "

The smile turned sad, and the soldier hoped that his son did not notice. "Exactly. **_I'm keeping you from the storm._** **_I have to be invincible._** "

The door was pummeled from the outside and a whistle was blown. The door then opened, revealing agents decked from head to toe in bulletproof gear. Three stepped into the room, guns at the ready, and Peter knew what for. His papa was a threat. He himself was a threat. He was used to being contained, being urged to thrive but only to a certain point. They both were.

Two of the agents grabbed Peter's wrists. They kicked the backs of his knees, and Peter played along as they forced him to the floor. His wrists and ankles were locked into a shackle, and a gag was forced into his mouth.

He knew what was happening. This always happened, especially when they were away from base. They did this anywhere, no matter the destruction that was bound to happen.

His papa looked at the officer. He started to shake his head, but thought better of it. " ** _Not in front of him_** _._ "

"You don't get to decide, dog. Zhelaniye, rzhavyy." The first two words came quickly, and all Peter could do was watch his papa stumble back as his humanity was being torn from him. "Semnadtsat', rassvet, pech'."

Peter flinched when he screamed. But he had to watch. He knew, from experience, what would happen if he didn't. The sound was one of a wild animal; ferocious, uncontrolled, completely raw and rid of mercy. He watched the guards line up as the Winter Soldier surged toward the officer.

"Devyat, dobrokachestvennyy, vozvrashcheniye domoy, odin, gruzovoy vagon."

The Winter Soldier froze. He straightened his back, squared his shoulders, dropped his chin as he stared at nothing; he became someone that Peter no longer recognized as his father.

"Soldier?"

" ** _Ready to comply_** _."_

||||||||||

Natasha Romanoff did not know what she was doing, or why she was doing it--especially in the spacious training room, where the walls were glass and anyone could see her. The ribbons tied around her calves felt like chains holding her in place. She felt the need to raise herself up on the boxes of her shoes, because that's what the shoes wanted her to do. They wanted her to spin and twirl, balance and navigate, force and control.

She set her tennis shoes on the floor beside the wall. She pushed herself to her feet, walked around a little to make sure the shoes were put on right, and then froze.

Why was she doing this? This was reenacting a nightmare. She might as well put handcuffs on. She knew exactly where they were, so it wouldn't be hard to get them.

She placed her right foot in front of her left, crossing her wrists at the small of her back. She hesitantly pointed her right foot, placing the box on the floor, her knee bent. She inhaled deeply, and bounced up onto the box of both shoes as she exhaled.

Suddenly she was back in the Red Room Academy, wearing made from the skin of victims and shoes of blood, leaving red footprints in her wake; listening to music made of screams, whimpers, and the metal clangs that rang throughout the night; she was being wrapped in a safe embrace after being starved of human touch, kissed by the gentle side of death, appraised and worshipped and handled with unneeded care. She was supposedly made of marble, and he knew it, but also knew what she truly was. She was a scared girl who knew how to kill, made neither from marble or glass, and he treated her like she was human amidst all the nightmarish things that surrounded them.

"Nat?"

Natasha didn't realize she had been dancing, though halfheartedly. She fell from the points of her shoes, her knees gave out from the sudden change, and she fell down to the floor. Her palms broke her fall. She felt ashamed. That fall went against all of her training.

The person who had startled her seemed to realize that, and ran forward to kneel down beside her. Natasha looked up at him as she sat up. Steve put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. "What are you doing in those?"

"I don't know," she whispered, putting her hand over his wrist. "I think I felt like I needed to do it."

Steve looked confused. She understood. He knew nothing about her life before S.H.I.E.L.D. She watched him push aside his confusion to say, "I wanted to tell you that I'm about to go on my run. Pick me up later?"

She nodded. "Yeah. Of course. The reflecting pool?"

"Yeah" he slid his hands down her arms, clasped her hands, and pulled her up, "Are you okay?"

She faked a smile, nodding her head. "I'm fine, Rogers."

||||||||||

He always had to observe, always had to analyze. In those moments, Peter always remembered that the Winter Soldier was a terror to society.

He watched as the Winter Soldier pulled himself out of the moving car. Once the back door closed, he looked up, hearing the heavy boots walking over the roof. Then the soldier was gone, dashing down the lane. He launched himself on top of a car, pushing his metal arm through one of the windows. He threw the man--Jasper Sitwell, from what Peter had been able to gather--into the opposing lane. He watched him get crushed by an incoming truck. The driver of the tiny car slammed the breaks, throwing the Winter Soldier off their roof.

Peter jumped when the Jeep he was in rammed into the car, pushing it forward. He almost fell, but he caught himself on the wall. He'd gone on missions before, but he had never been a part of one as public as this. He tried to control his erratic breathing, wanting to watch the fight to know what was going on, but not wanting to see his papa following orders. He had control over himself when he heard the soldier jump onto the hood of the Jeep, as they hit the car again, clearly attempting to run them off the highway. Through the windshield, past his papa, he saw the car swerve, flip, and the passenger door come off, the three people holding on for dear life as they skidded across the pavement.

The Jeep jerked to a stop. The guards opened the back end, filing out, holding their weapons at the ready. Peter didn't move, he instead waited for orders. He barely flinched when he heard a bomb--his eyes widened when he saw the man with the shield fly off the side of the highway--and the following gunshots echoed in his ears, bullets attempting to live up to their damaging destinies.

Another bomb was fired, aimed at the woman with red hair. She had caught Peter's eye, and he continued to watch her. She jumped over the cement divider, using it to block the worst part of the bomb. Glass showered over her, she rolled out of the way of a speeding car, and she jumped over another to avoid gunfire. His papa sent another bomb her way, and Peter silently watched the woman with the fiery red hair disappear over the side of the highway.

He soon heard a smaller gun fire, and his papa reared back from the edge of the highway. He left Peter's view, disappearing between cars. He immediately jumped back up, firing rapidly straight down at the ground, slowly raising the gun as his target moved. Then, he jumped down, in pursuit of the person he couldn't hit.

Peter pressed his back to the wall again, closing his eyes so he could no longer see the scene. The roads below them were in chaos, the screams and gunshots were hard to listen to, and he wanted to go home. He wanted his papa to remember again.

Minutes later, the remaining agent on the highway caught his attention; " ** _Backup_**."

Peter turned his head toward the agent, scraping as much emotion as he could out of his expression.

" _ **Are you ready?**_ "

He nodded his head once. He jumped out of the open backend, accepted the dual pistols from the agent, and paused for orders.

" ** _Do not use your_** ** _webs_** ** _unless it is absolutely necessary. No one can know your resources until your official mission is ready. Do you understand?_** "

He nodded again.

" ** _There are three targets. It doesn't matter_** ** _who_** ** _you go after, but don't get_** ** _in_** ** _the asset's way._** "

He didn't reply. He didn't find the need. He jumped off the side of the bridge his father had, landed on top of a crushed car, and went on his search for the woman with red hair.

He was warm underneath the sealed leather top, that was almost exactly like his papa's. His had no holster strapped to his back, instead he had a belt latched around his stomach, a holster above each of his hips, and had both sleeves attached. Beyond those and minor details, they were the same. He felt sweat underneath all the leather covering his upper body and feet, the heavy material of the pants, and the mask that matched his father's.

He came to the street where his papa and the man with the shield were fighting like their lives depended on it. Peter had never seen his papa fight like that. Their other missions were short and simple--they were usually his papa hiding in the shadows with a gun, where Peter was his spotter and distraction. Sometimes they infiltrated bases, but the people were against always went down easy, and other times they went undercover, posed as a normal father and son in the middle of the crowd. No matter their previous missions, or whatever they were training for, Peter had never seen his papa at his very worst.

He found the woman behind a car. She was in pain, out of breath, and holding her shoulder. Peter could practically smell the blood that covered her hand and soaked her jacket. She heard him come closer and spun around, pressing her shoulder to the car and aiming a pistol at him. Despite the tough act, he could still see the pain in her eyes and could tell that not all of it was physical.

Throughout training, his papa often lectured him on the difference between right and wrong. He always told Peter, " _We are good people. We are just in a bad situation. We no longer have the chance to be good._ " Peter knew that HYDRA was evil, and what they were forcing the two of them to do was wrong. But, like his papa always said, they had no choice, and a lot of the time the choice was taken from them. It was kill, be killed, or forget everything that made them who they are, that reminded them they were still human.

He knew that these three targets did nothing wrong. That was why he didn't take his eyes off the woman as he pushed his pistols into their holsters, turning off the safety. He nodded his head to her, and she looked confused. With his order replaying in his mind, he pressed down on his webbing and launched some into his other palm. He was thankful for the gloves he was wearing as he pressed it into a wad and held it out to the woman. With his other hand, he loosened the mask. "This should hold the bleeding, until you get help."

"Why are you helping me?" she demanded.

"HYDRA is flawed. You and your friends have to win. Save me and my papa."

"Who is your father?"

He didn't say his name. He didn't like calling his papa the names HYDRA called him. "The one with the metal arm."

Her face completely changed. She lowered the gun and reached out to accept the webbing. She pulled her jacket away from the wound, hissed in pain, and pressed the webbing to the bullet hole.

A few cars over, Peter heard, "Bucky?"

His papa replied, "Who the hell is Bucky?"

As the woman haphazardly pushed herself up, he told her, "That will dissolve in a few hours. You can easily cut it off. Please help us. I can't do this my whole life." He ran away, toward where he heard the voices, jumping over cars. He launched himself onto the shoulders of the shocked blond man, twisting to pull him to the ground. With a kick to the man's chest, he propelled himself off, flipping and jumping over to where his papa stood, gun aimed, eyes wide in a way the Winter Soldier's never would be.

A grenade was launched at them. The last thing he saw before the smoke blocked his view was the woman staring at them with heartbreak in her eyes. He was confused, but his thought process was broken by his papa grabbing onto the back of his uniform and pulling him away.

||||||||||

Peter was forced to stand and watch as the metal arm was fixed. He didn't take his eyes off his papa's face, off the tortured shadow in his eyes.

Peter jumped when his papa turned his head, gasping, his eyes wide with horror and memory. He grunted, in pain. In the blink of an eye, his papa pulled his arm in front of him and used the momentum to hit the scientist that was trying to fix it in the chest. As the scientist was launched across the room, the guards in the room all pointed their guns at the soldier, but the two holding on to Peter's arms did not move.

He was breathing heavily, as if he were angry, but the look on his face hadn't changed.

Peter had never seen his papa like this. He tried to catch his eyes, worried, but he didn't succeed before the Superior walked in, a couple of guards following a few steps behind.

"Mission report," he said. When he did not get a reply, he repeated, demandingly, "Mission report, now." Peter prayed for his papa to reply, but no such thing happened. The Superior began to turn away, but then he backhanded him across the face. Peter bit down on his lip to keep himself from making a sound.

His papa immediately turned back. He said, his voice soft and confused, "The man on the bridge...Who was he?"

"You met him earlier this week on another assignment," the old man replied, easily.

Peter barely held back the scoff.

His voice had become broken; "I knew him."

Peter's whole body tensed. Part of him was betrayed. How could he confess that? The scientists made him forget when he remembers anything beyond what HYDRA wanted him to know. The other part of him was ecstatic. His papa was remembering someone from his life before he was the Winter Soldier!

The Superior pulled the previously-occupied stool to himself and sat down. He leaned in close to the soldier as he said, "Your work has been a gift to mankind. You shaped the century, and I need you to do it one more time. Society's at a tipping point between order and chaos, and tomorrow morning we're going to give it a push. But, if you don't do your part, I can't do mine, and HYDRA can't give the world the freedom it deserves."

He looked as if he hadn't heard. He repeated, "But I knew him."

The Superior took a deep breath and stood up. "Prep him."

"He's been out of cyro freeze too long," the scientist protested.

"Then wipe him and start over," he ordered.

The two bow-tied scientists walked toward him, each setting a hand on his shoulders to push him back into the chair. He didn't fight it, even opened his mouth and accepted the mouth guard.

Peter's eyes widened in horror. _No. No, no, no, no. They couldn't do this._ They couldn't make him watch this violation. As the metal restraints wrapped and locked around both of his papa's arms, Peter screamed like a child. "No! No, stop! Papa!" He thrashed in between the two guards. He managed to wrench one arm out of its hold, elbowed the agent under their chin so hard that their neck gave a sickening crack, and jumped up as he turned to punch the other. His fist and knee hit the guard, causing him to let Peter go and crumble to the floor.

The soldier's scream blended into his own, both made from pain and torture. At hearing it, Peter felt like he couldn't breathe. The Superior turned away from both, beginning to leave the room. "Put the Backup where he belongs. He's gotten too close. Get a mission report from him before you do too much."

He tried to fight, but the guns aimed at him and the sound of his papa's screams made his heart pound so hard that he could feel the beats in his feet. He turned, letting out a silent gasp when he found the barrel of a gun aimed at his forehead.

The guard had the visor of their helmet down over their face, but that didn't make it any more or less intimidating. "I suggest you calm down, Backup."

The sound of electricity popping had filled his ears. He bared his teeth, narrowed his eyes to a glare, and pushed his forehead into the gun so the metal was completely flush to his skin. "You can't kill me. He'd lose it. He'd kill all of you and wouldn't blink. Besides," he smirked, "I'm the Backup. I'm essential for when something goes wrong."

"You can be replaced."

"I was trained as a Wolf Spider and a Black Widow, by the Winter Soldier himself. I have HYDRA's super soldier serum running through me, along with the effects of the radioactive spider experiment. I'm not that replaceable, and you all know it."

||||||

He may be irreplaceable, but he definitely wasn't invincible.

He screamed as the guard pressed the electric baton to his stomach, his muscles temporarily paralyzed from the zap. His right arm was stuck in full extension, his fingers numbed, the right side of his stomach seizing as if he had a stitch in his side, all from the electricity flowing through him. He gasped in relief when the baton was torn away from him. His whole body remained limp on the ground as they spit on him before leaving and locking the cell.

He had been manhandled, stripped of his leather gear and clothing. The electricity crackled across his skin, making the kicks they threw between shocking jabs sting even more than they should have. Laying there, staring up at the dripping cement ceiling, he could feel his ribs repairing their cracks, his skin knitting back together over bloody, welted splits.

He sighed, closing his eyes. It had been too long since they were last separated. It felt foreign to him, above all temporary, like the whole of the American base.

The only place he felt at home was with his papa, and he knew that was his greatest weakness; family. His safe space sometimes wasn't even safe--at times, that was what held the gun to his head, and Peter couldn't believe how much it took out of him every time to not break down into smithereens.

Since his papa told him what HYDRA did to him, Peter struggled. When he watched his papa get hit, he wanted to launch himself at every bad guy close to him. When he was threatened to be put back on ice, Peter wanted to do anything in his power to save him. When his memories were taken away, Peter was threatened with the same deal.

They could take him away from his papa, but Peter wouldn't be able to rest if it went the other way around. He knew he had code words, just like the soldier, but he had no idea what they were; and when it came to the point they would be needed, he knew it was his end. He couldn't be saved after that. His papa's words during training were escaping him little by little, day by day, and he knew that they would soon be gone. He would be a bad guy, a killer, and the red would forever stain his skin. He wouldn't have a choice, but he would still do it, and that's the flaw that Peter found in his papa's mantra.

He was born to two of the best killers of the Soviet Union--he knew that he couldn't help it. Killing was in his blood. He couldn't escape it.


	5. четыре | FOUR

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stages of Grief: Depression and Denial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to post this chapter until Saturday, but my aunt invited me on a week-long vacation last-minute. I would be away from a computer, so I figured I would update this story on this site while I can. I don't figure that would make anybody too upset (:

**2015**

Peter was in that cell for too long. He felt like he was going crazy. He swore he was hearing voices, whispers in his ears and blood-curdling screams that left him just over the verge of tears; his cheeks shining, wet tracks traced down his bare neck and chest.

By the time an agents came and pulled him from the cell--only after they threw a bundle of clothing at him and ordered him to get dressed--he was shaking and couldn't remember how long he had been in it. All he knew was that the lights outside of the cell were too bright, the voices were too loud, and there was just too much life.

He continued to tremble, continued to whisper sweet nothings to himself, as the agent led him to a small room filled with computer screens and a desk console covered with buttons and lights. Only three of the screens shed light, but Peter didn't bother to look. He was shoved into a simple metal chair behind the person hovering in front of the screens, but he didn't care. He didn't touch his tear-stained face despite the fact he could be seen, already had been seen, and just leaned down to tie the boot laces he hadn't been given the time to tie beforehand. He managed to get them somewhat decent--one shoe was a little looser than the other, but he couldn't bring himself to care--despite his shaking fingers and the tight, uneasy feeling in his stomach.

Something bad was happening, or was going to happen. And he wasn't able to do anything to stop it. He wasn't in his right mind, and he knew it--but he also knew that he had to get in it, or it would be put into him.

He clamped his webshooters on underneath the sleeves, the devices having been given to him along with the clothing. Bundling the sleeve of the navy blue jacket in his fist, he used the bottom section of his thumb to rub away his dried tears. He sniffled softly, his nose running. He ran both hands through his hair, pulling the oily strands from his face.

Deep breaths. In, and out. It was simple, but Peter's rattled mind found it life-threatening. Pushing through the discomfort, he forced himself to take the breaths, clenched and unclenched his fists, until his head began to clear.

"The Superior is dead, sir," the security officer said, not looking up from the scenes in front of him.

The cloud came back in, and Peter's senses went back into overdrive. He averted his gaze, bowing his head and closing his eyes.

"Show what's happening in the last helicarrier," the agent demanded.

Peter looked up, suddenly overwhelmed with curiosity. Was this the Project Insight he had overhead? "Who's in the last helicarrier?"

The agent turned, looking at him with narrow eyes. "You really think you should be speaking, Backup?"

"My papa's on the field. I think I deserve to know if he's still alive."

"Found the surveillance. The asset is injured," security intercepted. Peter's ears practically perked, but his growing headache pressed down on his skull to an unknown beat. He craned his neck, trying to see over security's shoulders.

"Backup. You know how he works. What is this?"

Peter got to his feet--maybe too quickly, but he didn't care at that moment--and came up behind them. The flickering screen showed his papa pinned under the wreckage, stuck against the glass. The footage cut in and out, the audio skipping and stopping every few moments.

Another man dropped down from an upper level, a familiar shield strapped to his arm. Peter didn't know his name, but he knew enough. It was the man from the highway, the one his papa said he knew; the one Peter was desperate to know more about.

He was thrown around by the moving helicarrier, having no safe footing on the glass, but he seemed hellbent on getting to the pinned soldier, and Peter admired that. He managed to hold on to the fallen metal beam, lifting it up.

"Who is he?" he asked, not looking away as his papa pulled himself out from under.

"Captain America. America's Golden Boy."

Peter's gaze became more intense, focused on everything happening on the glitching security camera. The two faced each other, reeling from shock, pain, and exhaustion.

" _You -- ow -- e_ ," Peter heard, the static and the background explosions not helping the already low quality of the footage.

Peter heard his father's words loud and clear; " _No, I don't!_ " His metal fist hit the Captain square in the chest, throwing him back.

"Backup?"

"He's never that sloppy," Peter replied. "Let me listen."

Getting back up, the Captain pressed on. "-- _ou've know -- or whole life_." The asset hit him again, pushing him away, but Peter watched as his already lowering offense was shut off entirely. " _Your name is Ja_ \--"

The footage cut, and he bit back a scream of frustration. He bashed his hands down on the console, leaving dents the size of his hands.

The camera came back to life in time for Peter to watch him throw another poorly executed blow that was made of complete force, throwing the Captain down onto the glass and metal. " _Shut up!_ "

Peter shook his head, suddenly confused as to why his bottom lip was trembling. He whispered, "He's never sounded like that."

"Like what?"

Peter didn't answer, entirely focused on the Captain getting back to his feet. He always got back up. This time, he threw his helmet off, stumbling over the slick glass. " _I -- fight you_." Peter's eyes widened as he saw the shield fall through the broken panel of glass beside his foot. " _You're my friend._ "

Friend. Peter had heard that word before, but he didn't know exactly what it meant. He had never experienced it.

The responding battle cry was cut through with static, fear, and the explosions. The soldier tackled the Captain around the waist, pushing him to the edge of the metal rim. His words were heard but were unrecognizable through the growing static, and Peter willed the camera to hold on as long as it could, just for him. The punches came fast and imprecise, his chest heaving as he breathed. His metal arm was raised, but he was clearly hesitating the longer he looked at the Captain's beaten up face.

A metal column fell into the glass. Just before the camera cut, Peter watched them both fall.

"No," he breathed. He swallowed, unable to believe what he had seen. "No, no, no, no."

"Does anyone have eyes on the asset? Does anybody copy?" The agent stepped away from the screen, and the security officer moved away from Peter, whose breaths were quickly growing heavy and coming faster than before.

 _They fell into the wreckage_. Peter's fists clenched, squeezing metal between his palms. He felt a sharp edge dig into his skin, but he didn't care. _Nothing matters anymore._

"Palinsky," security said, uneasily, loud enough to gain the agent's attention.

"Backup. Control yourself."

Peter slowly turned his eyes away from the black screen, setting his gaze on the agent. "You're telling me to control myself?"

The agent didn't reply. He placed his hand on his gun, beginning to pull it out of its holster.

Peter sprung into action. He grabbed the agent's wrist with his right hand, flipping up into the air. He hooked his legs around his neck, pushing him down to the ground as he pulled the gun from his hand. When the agent fell like a box of rocks, Peter landed gracefully on his feet, the grip settled in his bloody palm. He raised his arm, pointing the gun at the shaking security officer, his finger at home--whether it be a broken home or not--on the trigger. "How close are we to the crash site?"

"A-a-across town."

Peter lowered the gun, crouching down to retrieve extra ammo from the unconscious agent's belt.

Radio static caught his attention. "The Backup is erratic. I repeat, the Bac--" He cut off when the bullet went through his forehead.

Peter lowered the gun again, shoving the ammunition into his pocket. He placed his other hand on the gun, cradling the handle, his index fingers extended along the backsides of the barrel, placed just above the trigger. He pushed himself up, bounding past the dead body and out of the room.

"Backup!"

Peter sprinted along the wall, his boots slamming against the metal below him in his haste. Tears streamed down his face, but he paid no mind to it. He had to get out. He needed to know if he was still alive.

He swiveled around just before he heard steps behind him, shooting at his guessed targets. All but one bullet met their marks. The last agent kept pushed forward. Peter shot him when he glanced back at the bodies that had previously fallen.

He turned back around, scanning the large room for an exit. He spotted a hallway, and decided it was his best bet. Two more agents met him head-on. He used the other as a stepping stool, his foot landing in the middle of his chest, and the agent fell back when he pushed himself off. He landed on the second agent, one boot on each shoulder. As the agent collapsed under the sudden impact, he flipped to the side, between the metal catwalks crisscrossing above the main floor.

He landed on the balls of his feet, dropping down on one knee so the impact had more places to go than just to his ankles. He pushed himself up again, sprinting to the hallway.

He was close. He could feel it. He needed to make it. He saw everything laid out right in front of him; he could escape, get to the crash sight, find his papa and the Captain. He could break through his papa's programming, and they could run from HYDRA.

They could attempt to leave the death and blood behind them. They could succeed. They could find a--

" ** _Home_**."

 


	6. пять | FIVE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A risky mission, confrontation, and a need for sleep

**2015**

Peter liked his black bulletproof suit more than the old leather uniform. The fabric was still thick and somewhat stuffy, but the mesh let his skin breathe. They had almost gone with the undercover route, but Peter found the rooftop scouting to be a better way. He could do what he was good at.

" _ **You are going in for one thing and one thing only,**_ " the small communication device buzzed in his ear. " _ **This is Avengers tower. You must work fast.**_ "

" ** _Yes, sir,_** " Peter murmured in reply, crouching down below the cement edge of the rooftop he was on. He placed his hands on his gun holsters for slight reassurance, sliding his fingers down the sides of his legs to feel the leather sheaths that safely housed his knives. He looked up, the glass panels reflecting the surrounding skyline, training his eyes on the open deck. " _ **I have eyes on the balcony.**_ "

" _ **Systems are down for five minutes**_."

Peter took that as his go. He pushed himself up and away from the high concrete edge, sprinting toward the other end of the building, raising his arms and shooting two webs at the tower. He jumped up onto the edge, transporting all his strength into his knees and ankles to push himself even higher. In the air, he pulled his arms behind him, making the webs contract and pull him up toward where they connected to the tower.

Sadly, but unsurprisingly, he fell short of the balcony. He hit the glass on his hands and bent feet, glad that he could still stick to buildings through the suit. He took a deep breath before scaling the side of the building, pushing himself up as fast as he could.

When he got closer to the balcony, he shot a web at the railing, pushing himself off the side of the building. He swung to the front, hitting the railing, He exhaled heavily, relief flooding him, before he climbed over the railing and ran into the main room.

" _ **A little more than three minutes.**_ "

He let out a small, cheeky laugh. " ** _I made good time._** " He drew one of his pistols, holding it at the ready as he high-tailed through the rest of the level, toward where he remembered the stairwell being located.

" _ **Remember the map, Backup.**_ "

" _ **Why do you think I went to the top floor?**_ " He rolled his eyes, opening the door and darting through, bounding up the stairs.

" _ **Don't get smart,**_ " another voice chastised.

" _ **It's how I show my gratitude.**_ " Peter smirked underneath his mask, rounding up the next set of stairs. Halfway up, he jumped and twisted, grabbing into the railing of the stairs above his set. He hefted himself up, hopping over the railing and continuing to the double doors that were at the top of them. He stopped, peering through the small window.

Knowing enough about Stark and Dr. Banner, he was surprised that the level was left empty. He opened the door a crack, enough to slide through, and eased it shut behind him. He quickly darted through the lab, maneuvering around tables and machinery that were all unknown to him.

" ** _Two minutes left_**."

 _Okay_ , Peter thought, looking around. _If I were a reactor, I wouldn't just be laying around._ Tony Stark was smarter than that--all the Avengers were. He knelt down beside a cabinet stuck under a table, setting his gun on the floor and unsheathing one of the thinner knives to hopefully break the small lock. Knowing he had no chance with the miniature keyhole, he pressed the tip of the knife under the metal outlining and tried to push it out, taking the keyhole out altogether.

Thankfully, his plan worked. The cheap metal lock popped right out after a few pushes and jimmies, and Peter hooked his fingers through the handle and pulled the drawer open.

The elevator dinged, and Peter froze. "Put your hands up."

He cocked his head to the side. " _ **I thought I had two more minutes.**_ " He dropped the knife and pushed himself to the left, scooping up his gun as he slid across the floor. He shot through the bars and useless metal underneath the tables. The bullet ripped through a loose part of their jeans.

"Jarvis, alert the others!"

"On it, Mr. Wilson," an overhead voice chimed. Peter recognized the British accent from his short time in Manchester.

Peter grabbed another cabinet, pulling it in front of him to take the bullet aimed at him. When he saw the man move around the tables, he twisted his body around and kicked the cabinet at him as hard as he could. His foot left a dent, and it rammed into the man's legs, causing him to double over. Peter took the time to aim his gun at the stranger's head and push himself to his feet.

A few more people charged into the fluorescent-lit lab. Peter's eyes widened when his eyes landed on the Captain and the woman with red hair. He breathed out, "You're alive."

"Shut your mouth," the man--Mr. Wilson--ordered. Peter snapped to attention, flicking his gaze back to him. "Who are you, and what do you want?"

" _ **Do you need offense, Backup?**_ "

" ** _I'm fine,_** "he muttered. He took one hand off his gun, reaching up and pulling the comm out of his ear. He pressed the small off button, sliding it into a pocket of his utility belt. "How are you alive? You fell from the helicarrier--I saw you!"

"Lower your guns, now!" the woman commanded, raising her voice. When neither moved, she exclaimed, "Both of you!"

Peter waited until Mr. Wilson lowered his before lowering his own. He still held it in his hands, his finger remaining on the trigger.

The woman turned her green eyes on him, staring him down. " _ **Who are you?**_ "

He instinctively returned the Russian; " _ **My name and face are none of your concern**_."

"Nat, please, stop it with the creepy language," Mr. Wilson complained, reaching an arm out toward her.

The Captain stepped around a table, toward Peter. "How did you see me fall?"

"HYDRA had access to the security cameras," he answered, truthfully. "I saw you both fall." He blinked repeatedly, mentally willing the tears to stay away. He couldn't show emotion, not when three pairs of eyes were trained on him.

The elevator opened again, another person stepping out. Peter recognized the famed Tony Stark from pictures he had been shown. Mr. Wilson and the Captain both glanced back at him, acknowledging his appearance.

"What's going on here?" he demanded. "Why does nobody have their guns blazing?"

"I won't shoot the Captain," Peter said.

"Why not?"

"Let's say it's...solidarity. We have a mutual friend."

"The Winter Soldier?" the woman asked, intercepting whatever the Captain had opened his mouth to say.

He nodded his head once, his face remaining blank. He was surprised by his willpower.

"Who is he to you?" the Captain demanded, taking another step forward.

Peter stepped back. "If you have questions, use them wisely. I remember the three of you--you were on the highway."

"He was the one to give me the webbing," the woman said, her voice suddenly light. "Steve, that's him." Peter watched the Captain--Steve--as his face changed from on-guard and desperate for answers, to surprised, heartbroken, and relieved.

"Is there something I'm missing out on here?" Stark asked, his voice dripping with arrogance. Peter recognized it as his defense.

"He's my son."

Peter's hands tightened on his gun. He raised it again, taking a few unintelligent steps forward and aiming it at her throat. "You're a liar!" he shouted, losing his composure. He felt heat rush to his face, his eyes narrow into a glare, and the tremble that settled in his limbs.

"Kid--" Mr. Wilson started, raising his gun again. Steve held out a hand, motioning for him to stop.

"Y-you're a liar!" he repeated. "My mother is dead!"

"How much did he ever remember?" she asked, her voice remaining gentle, her gaze locked to his. She didn't seem scared to be at gun-point. "Last I knew, they tortured him, reprogrammed him--"

Peter desperately wanted to believe her; the fabled, unnamed woman of fire and will. The Black Widow. But he couldn't. He was ready to jump, but he wasn't prepared for the fall. He interrupted her, his voice trembling, "She's always been dead! You both were dead!" He blinked away sudden tears, a sob hitching in his throat, his arms falling from their offensive stance. His hands clenched into fists, a bullet shooting through the floor, the handle crushing like an old soda can under his hands. "He should've stayed dead!" 

"You need to answer our questions. We can help you," she promised, holding her arms out in caution.

"They won't let me go," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "I'm their Backup, their replacement--they lost one of us, they won't lose the other." He couldn't help the sneer that twisted his mouth. "I'm the child of the Black Widow and the Winter Soldier, they experimented on me, and they know they can't replace me."

"Will you take your mask off?" she coaxed. "We can get you fresh food, clothes that are your own. Wouldn't that be nice?"

Peter stared at her with wide eyes. "I don't deserve it."

"You never had the chance to be good. Whatever you've done is not your fault, I promise." She started to reach out for his hand.

Peter grabbed her wrist. "We were beaten bloody, broken down into nothing. I've been treated like an animal my whole life--and I try so hard to believe I'm a good person that never had the chance to be good, like he told me from day one, but I can't believe that anymore. Since the helicarriers fell, I've invaded three bases, killed over fifty people. I tore someone's skull open. All I can think about is the blood that they don't give me the time to wash off, that they want to put me in the chair and make me into him."

"You're barely fourteen," she whispered.

Peter tore himself away from her, as if the name had jolted him awake. He pulled his second pistol from its holster and drew a knife from his thigh. He held them out on either side, pointed at Mr. Wilson and Steve, glaring at the red-haired woman. "Are you sure you want to have issues?"

"Baby, please. We can help you."

Peter raised his chin, almost defiantly. "Why would I need your help when nothing matters anymore?" He twisted around, throwing his knife at one of the glass panels on the wall. The blade slid through, weakening the wall. He pulled another out in time to press it into the tender skin below Steve's chin. It sickened him to see the Captain immediately freeze in response. "He said he knew you. You said you knew him. Is that true?"

"I've known him my whole life," he said, his voice level. Peter was silent, unresponsive, until the Captain asked, "Now, what did he call you?"

Peter didn't look away from Steve. "He called me Peter." He pulled the knife away from his chin, kneeing him in the stomach. He twisted around, back-kicking him in the chest as the three other Avengers sprung into action.

Mr. Wilson had called the woman Nat. She tackled him around the waist, grabbing at the wrist that held the knife. Stuck on the floor beneath her, he quickly pressed the barrel of the gun he still held to his temple. She froze.

"Let me go," he whispered, "or I will pull the trigger. I have nothing to live for."

"Kid, calm down," Stark said, his voice shaking from what Peter could guess to be shock. "Calm down. Put the gun down. We'll let you go."

"Tony!" Nat exclaimed, betrayal seeping through her voice.

Peter kicked her off of him while she was distracted. He stood up, the gun remaining in its perceived offensive position. "I was sent for an arc reactor. I'll get beaten if I fail my mission."

"Tony, we can't let him go," Nat whispered, desperately, her body trembling too violently to get up from the floor.

"I can't give you one. I'm sorry, but I'm giving you an easy way out of a death penalty. Take it."

Peter nodded, understanding. "Thank you, Mr. Stark. I wish I could repay you." He turned and jumped up onto the table behind him, throwing himself into the window he had used as a makeshift knife target. He heard Nat's chilling shout as he fell, and the world shifted on its axis.

||||||||||

Natasha pulled Steve's hoodie tighter around her as she soundlessly walked into Steve's common area. His floor of Avengers Tower was a bit excessive--amassed with red, white, and blue--as all of them were, but she knew it didn't matter to Steve what all was in it. He wouldn't have cared if it were empty.

She sat down on the opposite end of the white, paint-splotched couch. She tucked her right leg beneath her, shifting her weight onto her right hip and folding her other leg in front of her, her thigh pressed into her stomach and her knee into the back cushion.

Steve didn't look up from the bottle of gin that sat, unopened, on the glass coffee table. "How are we going to do this?"

"Do what?" She sniffled. "He doesn't believe me. He wants nothing to do with me."

"He does with me. He..." he shook his head, scrubbing his hand across his jaw. "He believes in me. Just like Bucky did." He suddenly chuckled, humorlessly, pressing his face into his hands. "Must be genetic."

Natasha hated it, but Steve was right. Peter believed in him. He had to step up. She said, trying to keep herself in neutral territory, "HYDRA is still operating. That's the biggest issue, beyond our scale of problems."

Steve stayed still, beyond lowering his hands and taking a deep breath. "Yeah. You're right."

"And once we can get HYDRA down, once and for all, Peter is ours. They wouldn't be able to take him back."

"And what about Bucky?" he asked, though the questioning tone was nowhere in his voice. It was more of a statement, Natasha realized. "Peter doesn't trust anyone. He trusted Bucky and he's clearly held on to him. He trusts me because he knows that he should. He doesn't have proof of his mother being alive."

"We'll find some way to convince him. Even if I have to wait for us to find James. He's my son, Steve. All these years, I thought he was dead. Now he's alive and he's hurting. I need to do what I can, with or without James."

He nodded his head. "Of course. I understand--the best I can, of course."

She smiled. "Thanks, Steve."

"Don't thank me. We're here for each other. That kid would be my nephew, if everything had panned out the right way. I don't know him, he put a knife to my throat, but I love him. And we're going to find him. We're going to get both of them back."

Natasha set her head down on the plush couch cushion, closing her eyes. Immediately, she was back at the edge of Moscow, running as fast as she could with James covering their backs, snow and pregnancy slowing her down. Their separation. The codeword that made him collapse.

"Steve?" she whispered, opening her eyes again.

"Yeah, Nat?"

"When we tried to escape, it was because it wasn't just about us anymore," she said, her voice small and brittle. "He was willing to put his life above ours, and when he actually did it, I was useless. I couldn't save him."

Steve was silent, as if he were hesitating. Finally, she felt his hand on her knee. His sigh was as heavy as the world that sat on his shoulders. "I couldn't save him either, Tasha, and I regret it every day. I know it won't make up for everything, but if we can help Peter, then I feel that Buck would be able to rest and do what needs to be done."

Natasha pressed her face further into the cushion, sliding one of her hands over Steve's. "How far are you and Sam?"

"He's not in America. We know that much."

"What can I do to help?"

"Keep on the lookout for Peter. If you remember anything useful, tell us."

"That's it?" she exclaimed.

"There's not much any of us can do," he explained, apologetically. "We're useless, sitting ducks. All we can really do right now is take out all the HYDRA bases we can find. Get the scepter. Keep on the lookout."

Natasha let out a quiet sigh, letting her body deflate against the couch cushion. The two superheroes sat in silence for so long, entirely encompassed in their own individual thoughts and memories of the missing James Buchannan Barnes, that Steve hadn't noticed when Natasha had fallen asleep. He didn't dare move her, not wanting to risk waking her up.

Steve shifted his weight onto his left hip, laying into the corner of the couch. His hand remained on the Black Widow's knee, her hand still on top of his. He laid his head back against the cushion, studying her.

He wasn't surprised that Natasha and Bucky had sought refuge in each other. They had similar mentalities, could understand each other's experiences to an entirely new level, and they were somewhat able to be there for each other when no one else was. Steve was happy for them. He wished that, in the future, the little family they had would be able to become whole again. All three of them deserved it.

Above all, they needed it.


	7. шесть | SIX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forgetting, waking up in a new life.  
> _  
> This chapter is a little shorter than usual, but that's okay. One of the chapters coming soon really makes up for the difference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd really love it if you guys followed my Instagram (@ashdeanmanns). I post about everything that I'm writing--updates, tidbits, and more! And Instagram itself is pretty new for me because I've never had it, but here I am...running five accounts (two are for school and are co-ran, one is just a weird spam account I share with a friend. Then I have my personal and my writing/drawing account). I would really appreciate the support!

**2015**

When Peter returned to his handlers, they silently took him to the American base. The agents didn't say anything about the red that rimmed his eyes or the tremble of his bottom lip that he couldn't keep from happening, they just continued on with their orders.

He felt like his whole world was slowly caving and he couldn't do anything about it. Why would HYDRA knowingly send him to Steve and Nat, when they knew he was connected to them?

Having had the chance to recover his composure and work it out with himself, he realized that he should have stayed. If the Captain was still alive, then his papa probably was, too. They could have helped him look for him.

The SUV stopped. One of the agents grabbed Peter's limp arms and unclipped the webshooters, folding them up and tucking them away somewhere in their uniform.

"Up."

Peter stood as the back door opened. He was nudged forward, so he went with the motion and hopped out. He was quickly joined by other agents, and wasn't surprised when they flanked him. It was how it usually went. But, once inside, he noticed more agents join his surrounding offense. Peter suddenly felt anxious. The most he had ever gotten were six, but this was more than ten.

Something was happening. He just didn't know what.

He was herded to a vaguely familiar room. In his exhausted state, he remembered what was in it too late, once he was walked past the threshold.

He doubled over, grabbing two ankles and flipping onto his back. The two agents went down. He swiftly pushed himself back up, springing up onto the shoulders of another agent. He spun his weight around, grabbing another agent by the arm and pulling him along, using him to knock others over and to take gunfire. The agent beneath him went unconscious, and Peter fell onto his feet, his clenched fists pulled up near his face and chest.

He looked up at the remaining agents, his eyes narrowing into a glare at the guns pointed at him. "I would rather not kill anyone, but I'm really not in the mood to do that. I'm also not in the mood to have my memories taken away."

"We figured this would happen," an agent said. "Bring in the girl."

A few moments later, the door opened. An agent held a gun underneath a little girl's chin, holding her tightly against him. She couldn't have been older than ten. Her eyes were crystal blue and were alive with fright, her hair was stringy and shiny, as if she hadn't washed it in a few days. Her shirt was torn, her jeans were dirty, and her shoes were missing.

Peter couldn't take his eyes off her. She was there because of him.

"What do you want to do, Backup?"

Peter readjusted his jaw, stepping back until he ran into the chair. He slid into the seat, leaning back until his body was completely flush with the cold metal.

"Good choice. Cindy here thanks you. Don't you, Cindy?"

Peter heard her cry. He forced himself to stay where he was, squeezing his eyes shut. "I'm doing what you wanted. Now let her go. She has nothing to do with this."

"You're right, kid." There was a sickening crack, and Peter was suddenly fighting tears.

The metal locked over his arms, and a small sob escaped his throat. He couldn't do this anymore. It wasn't going to be him doing the dirty work, but he wasn't sure if that was better or worse.

A scientist grabbed his chin, forcing a rubber guard into his mouth. Two hands pushed him back, so his shoulders were pressed to the back of the chair. He leaned his head back, staring up into a white light.

"I just want to let you know...that woman was the Black Widow."

The metal pieces were lowered, but his eyes didn't widen because of that--they widened because that woman, the woman with heartbreak in her eyes and hair made from fire, had been telling the truth. A heaving sob ripped from his throat, and his eyes went shut--he didn't want to look at the world as it was all taken from him. The pain ran like a rogue fire all through his body--spread like cold frost on crystal glass, stretched out like a deadly plague.

He couldn't forget him. He couldn't scream. He couldn't do anything but hold on to what he was desperate to remember.

His papa. His kind, encouraging smiles during private training sessions. His patience when he taught Peter fluent Russian and English, and semi-fluent Spanish, Romanian, and Dutch. The first gentle touch Peter had ever received being his.

Over the crackling of electricity around his ears, zapping against his skin, he could just barely hear words; and some part of him knew what they were before they were even spoken.

Orphan; sirota. The word seared Peter's brain, just like the machine. He gave way and screamed through the rubber in his mouth, his body spasming in the chair.

_"_ _**You were left behind.** _ _"_

_"_ _**You're nothing more than an animal, Backup. And animals have to be chained up.** _ _"_

_"_ _**You were never wanted** _ _."_

He wasn't an orphan. His parents were still alive. They were strong, resilient; just like him. He had to prove that. He could fight it.

Unwanted; nezhelatel'nyy

_"_ _**You're a sick, unwanted brat. You deserve worse than this** _ _."_

_"_ **_You're not unwanted. We wanted you, so badly._ ** **"**

_He left you!_ his mind screamed. _He left you to rot, just like you deserve!_

Twenty; dvadtsat'

How blue were his father's eyes? He couldn't remember. He couldn't help but think; _were they even blue?_

His stare is horrific. His eyes are colored in with a thundering storm, filled with rage and death--you don't look the Asset in the eyes unless you want to die.

_No. No, no, no. Not this soon. He can't be ripped from me again. Not this soon. Not like this._

Winter; zima.

His papa. The first person he had ever trusted and hadn't willingly stabbed him in the back. The man who cared for him until he couldn't. The man who gave him his name.

_"_ _**Just for you and me, bub.** _ _"_

_But I was never truly his. I was always_ theirs _, and it showed whenever we weren't alone together._

Widow; vdova.

A woman made from fire and will. That was what Peter had known about her. But he just met her. Her eyes were the color of--no. He didn't have a mother. Machines are not born, they are made by hand.

Ten; desyat'.

 _"_ _ **I thought you were dead. We both did. Or we wouldn't have allowed them to ever touch you**_. _"_

_You should have known. They always lie._

Wolf; volk.

Even brainwashed, it was still his papa's embrace. Even if they owned his body and mind, they didn't own _him_. Not truly. He was taken unwillingly, and Peter knew it even if his papa often forgot it.

Spider; pauk.

The Winter Soldier, and nothing more. He was a ghost story. The intelligence community doubted his very existence. He moved in the shadows because that was the only place he fit in. He could use a knife with the familiarity one may have for their child, because put in the place of his baby was a weapon.

One; odin.

The man with the metal arm. An unresponsive ice sculpture, a walking story of gore.

Backup; rezervnoye kopirovaniye.

The Backup went silent, the machine releasing him with one last jolt that shocked his system. He sat there, limp, silent, completely and utterly empty. He remained unresponsive until;

" _ **Spider?**_ "

The Backup's chin raised slightly in acknowledgement.

" ** _Ready to_** _**replace**_."

||||||||||

Peter Parker woke up with a pounding headache. When the sunlight shone in his eyes, he cursed every god in the universe and rolled over, pressing his face into his pillow.

When he couldn't fall back asleep--his blanket was too scratchy, so were his clothes--Peter pushed himself up off his bed and stumbled toward his door. He twisted the knob and yanked it open, pressing the heel of one of his hands into one of his eyes as he walked through the hall, one arm spread out for balance.

Peter stumbled and grabbed onto the kitchen counter, grunting as the cold faux-wood touched his skin. Something metal clattered, tearing up his brain like brittle tissues. He swore he felt his nerves vibrating.

Peter forced himself to take his hand away from his face and look up. Light came in through the window, blinding him and outlining Aunt May on her knees in front of an open cupboard, Uncle Ben at the stove.

Everything was dialed beyond full-force. Beyond ten, beyond eleven, beyond whatever numbers he could think of.

"Hey, Pete," Ben started, almost cautiously. His voice grated his eardrums. He set down his spatula, and the plastic clinking against the metal stovetop felt like nails were screwed through his temples. "You feeling okay?"

"I feel sick," he started. His voice boomed in his own ears, and his wince deepened. He started to pull away from the counter, but his hands held him in place. He immediately shrank back into the counter, leaning into it. His mind screamed, _Why the hell are my hands stuck?_

Then, he thought, _Why is everything so loud?_

Thoughts were loud, scents were loud, sights were loud--even loud was beyond loud.

"Peter, honey," Aunt May started toward him. She began to push her fingers through his hair, to push his curls off his forehead, but the second her skin touched his it felt like sandpaper was being rubbed all over his face. He bit down on his tongue, not wanting to scare her.

He ignored both his guardian's demands to go back to bed, instead waiting them out to begin to throw himself backward, wanting his hands off the counter.

 _C'mon, is it always like this?_ Peter didn't think so. In his weird, delirious state, he wasn't entirely sure, but he could remember never having to wrench his hands off of something.

Maybe it was some sort of glue? May did leave stuff out a lot, maybe some superglue got knocked over and it spilled. Peter tilted his shoulders farther back, bracing his legs on the floor and using everything he had in him to just pull.

He went flying, his head knocking onto the opposite counter. He fell down in a heap on the floor.

Peter sighed, pressing his forehead to the cold vinyl. _Okay._ _Long_ _day ahead. Let's go._


	8. семь | SEVEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Age of Ultron

**2015**

Natasha stood behind the bar, pouring the vibrant red drink she had made into a martini glass. Bruce slowly approached her, glancing at her as if to ask if it was okay for him to. Natasha looked away, playing indifferent. He removed his glasses as he said, his attempt at flirting, "How did a nice girl like you wind up working in a dump like this?"

"Fella done me wrong," she played along with the game, pouring the remains of her drink into a separate glass. Once it was full, she pushed it toward him. Bruce was always sweet to her. He was stuck in this odd grey area in her life. She could easily live without him. He could be an everyday occurrence, and she wouldn't have an issue with it. She considered him trustworthy, a friend.

He said, mournfully, "You got a lousy taste in men, kid."

 _He's really_ _calling me 'kid'?_ Natasha pushed past the nickname, leaning forward and saying, "He's not so bad. Well, he has a temper. Deep down he's all fluff...Fact is, he's not like anybody I've ever known. All my friends are fighters. Then here comes this guy, spends his life trying to avoid the fight because he knows he'll win." But he never could get away from it. He was always thrown into it. She hoped that he had finally succeeded, wherever he was.

She wasn't giving her hopes up on finding James. If he wanted to be found, he would have shown his face by then. He doesn't want to be found, so he would do what he does best and disappear. She fell in love with the remnants of a ghost, and he was taking his time coming back to life. She had to accept that.

He replied softly, "Sounds amazing."

She added, "He's also a huge dork." He looked bashful and embarrassed. "Chicks dig that." Natasha tried to figure out what exactly she was laying down the groundwork for. Was she going to do this or not? Was he going to be her distraction from the nightmares, from the blizzard that whipped her emotions out of their iron-tight prisons? "So what do you think; should I fight this, or run with it?"

He suddenly looked like he was grasping for straws, not sure how to answer. Natasha enjoyed watching him squirm under her thumb. "Run with it, right? Or, did he...was he...? What did he do that was so wrong to you?"

"Not a damn thing. But never say never." She pushed herself away from the bar, turning her back to him as she walked away, her hips swaying side to side. Hopefully he would take the bait.

||||||||||

Steve clapped his hands against his thighs as he stood up from the couch, moving around the table to Mjolnir.

Tony said, "Let's go, Steve! No pressure."

"Come on, Cap," Rhodey cheered.

Natasha watched the hammer closely as Steve wrapped his hands around the handle and pulled. She fought to keep her expression blank when it moved ever so slightly, only noticeable if you were looking directly at it. Out of the corner of her gaze, she watched Thor frown worryingly. Steve pulled again, feigning frustration, before respectfully backing off.

Thor gave a breathy, relieved laugh. "Nothing."

Natasha caught Steve's eyes as he retreated, pretending to lick his wounds. She quirked an eyebrow, and he shook his head slightly.

Next she knew, Bruce was asking if she wanted to have a go.

She leaned away, laying down on her hip and propping herself up on her elbow. "Oh, no, no. That's not a question I need answered." How could she be worthy? All she would do was stain the leather handle red.

"All deference to the man who wouldn't be king, but it's rigged."

"You bet your ass," Clint agreed, stepping out of the square of couches.

Maria pointed at him, looking at Steve. "Steve, he said a bad language word!"

He whirled on Tony. "Did you tell everyone about that?"

The billionaire ignored him. "The handle's imprinted, right? Like a security code. 'Whosoever is carrying Thor's fingerprints' is, I think, the literal translation?"

Thor stood up, taking slow, heavy steps around the table. "Yes, well that's, uh, that's a very, very interesting theory. I have a simpler one." He fit the handle in his palm, gave the hammer a little flip, and pointed the metal head at them. "You're all not worthy."

Natasha laughed when everyone groaned and exclaimed in disagreement, Tony and Clint going on and on about how it was rigged. Thor just grinned at their immaturity.

Suddenly the air ripped--a sound pierced through the room, making Natasha's temples buzz and her skull vibrate. It faded momentarily, and a skeletal rattle took its place.

Took its place behind her.

"Worthy..." Natasha stood up and turned, not very surprised to see a buggy, broken member of the Iron Legion. Their voice was a metallic vibration, snagging it's way through the air around them, taking up as much space as it could. "No...How could you be worthy? You're all killers."

"Stark," Steve barked, softly.

He was already on it, tapping at his wrist. "JARVIS."

The robot stumbled. "I'm sorry, I was asleep. Or...I was a--" it twisted at the waist, "--dream?

Tony spoke clearly into his wristband, "Reboot, Legionnaire OS. We got a buggy suit."

"There was a terrible noise...and I was tangled in...in...strings." It fell slightly, waving its arms before letting them go limp. "I had to kill the other guy. He was a good guy."

Steve demanded, offensively, "You killed someone?"

"Wouldn't have been my first call. But, down in the real world we're faced with ugly choices."

"Who sent you?" Thor asked in a voice that left no room for stalling.

The voice that came from the robot was not the one that they had previously heard--it was familiar, though clearly a recording; "I see a suit of armor around the world!"

Bruce turned to Tony, his eyes going wide. "Ultron!"

"In the flesh. Or, no, not yet. Not this...chrysalis. But I'm ready. I'm on a mission.

Natasha asked in a level tone, "What mission?"

"Peace in our time." The cement wall behind the robot shattered as bugged members of the Iron Legion tore through it.

||||||||||

Natasha's fingers caught against the wooden banister, catching her fall. She felt nauseous, winded, overwhelmed. This setting was too familiar. She hadn't been back there in so long, yet she knew it better than she knew herself.

Why wouldn't she remember the place she lost her humanity in?

She reached the bottom of the large staircase and tread softly across the floor, toward the dancing ballerinas. They were beautiful, graceful--their arms made wide, effortless arches, their shoes weren't too broken-in or not broken in enough, but they were clearly shaky on their feet and ready to be done for the day. They had been overworked, as they always were.

Dmitri demanded, "Again."

On the verge of tears, she protested, "You'll break them."

"Only the breakable ones." She knew that voice all too well. It haunted her nightmares and daydreams. "You are made of marble. We'll celebrate after the graduation ceremony."

"What if I fail?" She was shooting a target, three times before tossing the gun back and forth between her hands. Suddenly, the target turned into a boy with a sack over his head, struggling behind their gag.

"You never fail."

James stood in front of her, blood smeared over his jaw. His fingers, flesh and metal and bone, dug into her waist as he pulled her flush to his chest, capturing her mouth with his own.

"We can break out," he whispered into the kiss. "We can give our baby a life."

Snow was in her hair, and the sky was dark--James was pushing her away, telling her to go without him. To run  to live, to raise their child on her own. She was scared, she didn't want to go back there, she didn't want to leave him--and she ran. But when she looked back over her shoulder, after hearing a very specific word, the soldier was unconscious and agents were running over him to get to her. She fought, protected her growing baby, but when she was thrown to the ground and a gun was pressed to her stomach, she knew the deed was done.

"Children are weakness," Madame B reminded her, tearing the limp baby out of her arms. Natalia remembered wailing in response, but her body was too exhausted to do anything more than scream. Now she just stared at the body she thought was her child's. "The baby knew not to burden you. Why would a killer like you deserve a precious child?"

"A killer like me can't nurture innocence."

Natalia was slinging herself over Bucky's shoulders, around his biceps, but he caught his arm around her throat and forced her to drop her feet to the floor, pinning her against him. He squeezed, and Natalia struggled while she could, but had to smack his arm to get him to let go.

"Sloppy. Pretending to fail." The Madame came closer. "The ceremony is necessary for you to take your place in the world." Natalia saw the stretched-thin ballerinas, the boy with the sack over his head, a looming door with dirty glass. She saw her baby, her dead, replaced baby, and was swallowed by grief. It was all her fault. She should have known.

"I have no place in the world."

"Exactly." A hand covered her face, pushing her down against the all too familiar leather-covered gurney. Moving, blinding fluorescents glaring down at her; spinning, little girls without mouths, without the permission to speak for themselves for they no longer owned themselves.

She was not her own self. She was not his. She was not an Avenger. She was the academy's. Their precious Black Widow. Made of marble, not glass, an example set for the little girls to come. But yet, she was shattering into millions of minuscule pieces, surrendering to the tide of her emotions; her grief, her heartache, her longing.

She was a Black Widow with emotions, and that was the worst kind--

"Nat, looks at me. Focus." She was being shaken. "It's not real."

Her head lolled to the side, but a strong, familiar hand caught her. Clint repeated, "It's not real. Just look at me."

She felt her bottom lip trembling. Her voice rasped, "Clint--"

"Sh, sh, sh. It's okay."

Tony's voice broke through their comms. "Natasha. I could really use a lullaby."

Natasha. That wasn't her name.

"That's not gonna happen," Clint snapped back. "Not for a while. The whole team is down."

She wasn't the only one? Everyone else had been torn apart from the inside?

Steve's weakness was clear--the time period he was walking in. It was an easy insecurity that everyone knew. And Thor? The God who still refused to be King.

Tony sighed in frustration. "I'm calling Veronica."

||||||||||

Natasha held her arms protectively around her stomach while she sat in the quiet guest room, waiting for Bruce to get out of the bathroom. Though she was no longer under the spell, her mind still played tricks on her. She was wearing her leotard made from skin and blood, dancing along to a deadly melody, learning to be a shadow so she could be with another.

The door clicked open, and her head snapped up. Bruce immediately apologized, "I didn't realize you were waiting."

"I would've joined you, but uh, it didn't seem like the right time." She sends him a tight smile.

He gestured to the shower behind him. "They used up all the hot water."

"I should've joined you," she concluded.

"Missed our window."

"Did we?" She wasn't sure what exactly he was referencing.

He played with the towel in his hands, moving further into the room. She noticed how he avoided coming near her. "The world just saw the Hulk. The real Hulk, for the first time." He stopped beside a wooden chair, and slowly shrugged into his wrinkled dress shirt as he said, "You know I have to leave."

"But you assume that I have to stay?" she exclaimed. She shook her head, forcing herself to calm down. Since what happened in Nigeria with the enhanced, her emotions had been all over the place, just out of her reach, like a bone hanging over a dog's nose. "I had this, um, dream. The kind that seems normal at the time, but when you wake..."

"What did you dream?

"That I was an Avenger. That I was anything more than the assassin they made me."

"I think you're being hard on yourself.

She forced a cheeky smile and a flirty attitude. "Here I was hoping that was your job." She stepped up to him, getting in his personal space. She had to know what he truly wanted.

"What are you doing?

She tilted her head up, as if she was going to try to kiss him. "I'm running with it, with you. If running's the plan, as far as you want.

"Are you out of your mind?" He pushed himself away from her, quickly moving across the room.

"I want you to understand that I'm--"

He turned on her, his voice calm despite the frantic look in his eyes. "Natasha, where can I go? Where in the world am I not a threat?

She insisted, "You're not a threat to me."

"You sure? Even if I didn't just...there's no future with me. I can't ever...I can't have this," he gestured to the room around them. "Kids. Do the math, I physically can't."

She shook her head, crossing her arms back over her stomach. _Why the hell does_ _that have_ _to matter?_ "Neither can I. In the Red Room, where I was trained...where I was raised, um...they have a graduation ceremony. They sterilize you. It's...efficient. One less thing to worry about. The one thing that might matter more than a mission. It makes everything easier. Even killing." She paused, trying to break down the lump in her throat, continuing to blink tears from her eyes. In her sudden bout of weakness, she felt like she wanted to be honest. And she should. Bruce didn't deserve to be lied to. "And the baby I did have, before the ceremony, was taken away from me. He was made into a killer..just like his parents." She sniffled. She had been taught that taking life was more important than giving it, than nurturing it. "You still think you're the only monster on the team?

His brows furrowed as he thought. "Steve had been asking me if I could break mental programming, or if I knew someone who could. He spared the details, but...would it be for him?" he asked, gently, taking a few steps toward her.

Her arms tightened around her torso, her fingers digging into her waist. She choked out, "Two people." At seeing his confused expression, she ducked her head. "There's no point. They're both gone. James disappeared, just like he was taught to do."

"Natasha, I should know."

"Steve can tell you more than I can."

"But I'm asking you."

"Bruce--"

"Fella done you wrong. He's the fella."

She scoffed, shaking a lock of hair out of her face. She gave in. "He's the longest surviving POW in the world. Since World War II. He was made into a weapon, physically and mentally. He was a machine. Is."

"Steve's friend Bucky."

She nodded, reaching up to wipe at her eyes. She cleared her throat. "He trained us in the Red Room. I caught his eye..." She tried to think of exactly what to say. "We made each other feel...human. When I learned I was pregnant, we tried to escape. We fought for our baby. We got just past the border of the city, and we were found. He was taken back into torture, I almost went through an abortion. Now I know what happened. They hid him and gave me a fake baby. Made me think he was born still...I saw them both, together, in DC. It all clicked into place. Then my baby broke into the tower, and he didn't believe me when I was telling him I was his mother. Tony let him go when he had a gun to his head." A tear fell down her cheek, and she wiped it away. "Said that he didn't have anything to live for anymore. Since then, there's been no sight of either of them. Steve and Sam are trying, but they've benched me so I don't give my hopes up."

"And...being with me...that's not giving your hopes up."

"No, Bruce, I didn't--"

"You did, you can't lie your way out of that!" He paused, and Natasha set herself and waited for the green to creep through his veins. Instead, he shook his head, his body visibly deflating. "But I see why you did it. If you had told me the whole story, at the very beginning, I would have tried to find a way to help you."

"I'm sorry. For playing you like I did."

Bruce sighed, but cradled the back of her neck and pressed a short kiss to her forehead. "It's okay."

She started to shake her head. "It really isn't. I gave in to my training."

"Just listen to me. I respect why you did it. Know that I'm here whenever you need anything, okay?"

Natasha hadn't expected that. Anything but that. She expected to be faced with the Other Guy. She had played with his heart for her own gain, and here he was, offering more of himself to her.

She didn't deserve it. She never has.


	9. восемь | EIGHT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucharest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: there's a paragraph in this chapter where the tense and wording shifts. It's where I blocked things the wrong way, and part of the script was left in. I'm too lazy to write it in my style, so I'm just letting y'all know it's there. It's where Bucky punches one of the German policemen through the wall, and gets on the stairwell.

**2016**  


  
The people in the market were kind to him. He knew that they could tell he was foreign, that he was running from his problems and the law. But they helped him. When the amount of fruits and vegetables shocked him and he couldn't process the very definition of a simple desire, they helped him pick his way through the produce. A woman gave him two candy bars in exchange for two apples on Saturdays, which made him happier than it should have. But he had been without the small things in life for so long, so he was taking advantage of _his_ ability to eat whatever he wanted, to do what _he_ pleased in _his own_ space.

While he was thriving in Bucharest, he still wanted one thing--his boy. His son. The kid he barely remembered, but saw enough to know that he had to turn back and find him. He remembered quiet laughter, painful training sessions, but, ultimately, a love and itch of protectiveness that ran so deep in his bones that he knew the boy was a vital part of him, just as much as his heart or lung.

Bucky smiled at the vendor, holding the plums he wanted out to her. He had been told by the woman with the chocolate bars that they helped increase memory, as or after it's been lost. It was like she just knew the information he needed.

Sirens flooded the air around him, and fear suddenly grabbed at his ribs. He glanced over his shoulder, out at the winding street, as they got louder, swelling in his ears. He stayed in place until the produce was handed to him. He took the bag with an uneasy smile, said thank you, and turned around. He steadied his nervous heart and forced the tension to ooze from his shoulders, setting himself into a casual walk toward the street.

The sirens zoomed past him. Like they didn't know how the horrors he had lived, the deaths he had caused. Under that familiar guilt, thankfulness blossomed. They weren't after him. Not yet.

He tilted his chin down, hiding his eyes from the people around him. A stare burned into his chest, and he followed it to the source; he couldn't help his curiosity. The vendor behind the news stand blatantly stared at him, not even trying to hide his unease. When the road cleared, he stepped off the cement sidewalk--and as he advanced, the kiosk vendor scrammed, tripping over himself to get away.

Scooping up the paper, he realized he had to leave. His eyes brushed over the security images and he read, _WINTER SOLDIER CAUTAT PENTRU BOMBARDAMENTUL DIN VIENA_.

||||||||||

He managed to get to his apartment before the police forces he knew were on the way. But inside, he realized an entirely different force had beaten him. Captain America, Steve Rogers, pushed the chocolate bars off the notebook on top of the fridge, pulling the canvas bound-paper into his hands, cracking it open.

A small voice spoke into Steve's ear, and Bucky realized that, audibly, they weren't alone; " _Heads up, Cap. German Special Forces, approaching from the south_."

Steve responded, "Understood," and turned to Bucky. Eyes flashing with relief and recognition, he turned away from the fridge and asked, cautiously, "Do you know me?"

Did he? Bucky wasn't really sure--he remembered couch cushion forts and newspapers tucked into shoes, a sorrowful funeral in the late thirties and a call to war. But, as he was now? Modernized and playing for the government? That wasn't the Steve he knew. "You're Steve. I read about you in a museum."

The little voice chimed, " _They've set the perimeter_."

"I know you're nervous. And you have plenty of reason to be. But you're lying."

 _Why did this matter?_ Bucky thought, frustratedly. He needed to leave. Steve wasn't helping. "I wasn't in Vienna. I don't do that anymore."

" _They're entering the building_."

In his public speaking voice, Captain America's voice, he reported, "Well, the people who think you did are coming here now. And they're not planning on taking you alive."

Of course they weren't. They believed he committed a crime, and therefore he was going to pay. "That's smart. Good strategy."

" _They're on the roof. I'm compromised_." Outside the apartment, in the stairwell, heavy footsteps thundered.

"This doesn't have end in a fight, Buck." His brows were drawn tight, and Bucky realized--he was desperate, holding on to either end of a broken threat, pulling back with all his might.

But it was no use. Bucky had to hind his boy. Backing away, he murmured, "It always ends in a fight."

" _Five seconds!_ "

"You pulled me from the river. Why?"

Bucky couldn't take it. He snapped, "I have to leave!"

" _Three seconds!_ "

"Just tell me why--!"

The little voice shouted, " _Breach! Breach! Breach!"_ and a grenade was thrown through the glass window. Bucky shook himself out of his shock and kicked it to Steve, who immediately slammed his shield on top of it.

Outside, a man yelled, " ** _Shoot the door!_** " Something heavy was slammed into his door. Remembering the voice saying that they had the perimeter surrounded, he pulled his mattress up to cover him. Bullets buried themselves in it. Once the fire ended, he let the mattress fall and threw the small table into the front hallway. Each side got wedged on the wall, making it so the people outside couldn't get the door open. But that did nothing for the other entry points.

He spun around and punched the advancing office in the chest, pushing them into a wall. Steve shouted a warning; "Buck, stop! You're gonna kill someone!"

More gunfire. He could feel it, an itch under his skin. He pushed his old friend down, punching the floor beside his head--Steve dodged, flinching, just like Bucky knew he would--and grabbing around for the backpack.

Finally, his hand closed around the strap. He tugged the pack out, turning and throwing it out the window to the  neighboring building. He would jump after it, but he knew the fall from this height would injure his knees. He couldn't risk that right now.

More gunfire rained on them. He couldn't react fast enough, he braced himself--

Steve pulled him in close, pushing the shield in front of him. Instinctively, maybe even subconsciously, Bucky put his arm around Steve for a few seconds. Sensing that that immediate threat was over, he shoved Steve onto the balcony, where he stopped and knocked over another cop. He immediately spun, extending his hand to block incoming bullets. He grabbed the gun and pushed, knocking the guard into the shelves along the wall. He knelt, picking up one of the cinderblocks--he knew he took those for a reason! He pushed himself up again, slamming the cement block into one of the policemen's chests.

A cop shoots around the door outside. Bucky punches through the wall beside he door. He lays into the cops. A cop descends through a sky-light on a zip wire. Bucky grabs the cop's gun and slams him into the wall.

He remembered using Captain America'a shield, and he grabbed at the battering ram, pulling it onto his arm and striking whoever came near. As more cops ran up the stairs, Bucky threw himself off the stairwell, grabbing onto the zip-lining cop and swinging down a level.

" ** _Suspect has broken containment! He's headed down the east stairwell!_** " Shortly, the warning was cut off with a crunching sound.  
Fighting his way through the stairwell, he did nothing lethal. That wasn't him anymore. He knocked one of the officers over the railing, and Steve jumped to catch him. He raised his blond head, giving him an exasperated look. "Come on, man."

Bucky elbowed the advancing policeman behind him, and continued on and Steve threw the cop back up onto the stairs.

The grabbed the railing and jumped over the side. The structure bars ripped from the floor and Bucky swung down another level. He immediately resumed his desperate fight for freedom. Once he could continue, he did. He jumped into the empty square between the stairwells, catching onto the railing on a  down. His skin around the metal arm, though it had long gone numb, screamed in pain, his nerves having been jerked. His spine was pulled, his clavicle hissed at him--but he barreled through the pain, pulling himself up and sprinting through the hallway, throwing himself off the balcony.

His son could fly. He remembered that. He knew how to manage gravity, and pulled himself through the air on those altered webs like an ice dancer. Winding his arms and legs, Bucky flew. He hovered. He was free.

He hit the edge of the roof, ducking into a roll so the energy didn't shock his joints. He fell down onto the lower roof, pulling himself back up to his feet and grabbing the backpack, fastening it onto his back as he ran.

A shadow flew over him. As he began to make a reacting move, a solid, heavy weight plowed into his back. Both bodies tumbled down, but Bucky got back up as fast as he could, not wanting to be slowed down.

He half expected it to be Steve following him. But no. A man in a black suit stood up, and he curled his hands into claws--claws indeed. Sharp metal arrowheads popped out of the suit's fingertips.

And then suddenly, like a cat that his suit so much resembled, he pounced. Slashing and kicking, like he was fighting for his life, backing the shocked, tired Bucky into a corner.

Bucky dodged the kicked, pushing the limbs away. He narrowly avoided being slashed. He was kicked into a wall, and he barely got out of the way-- _holy shit_ , his brain could've been torn apart--He needed more than just himseld, he realized, as his eyes found a rogue metal pipe. He has it in

The cat's claws reached for him, but Bucky dropped the pipe and grabbed his wrists. When he saw the chopper over a black-clad shoulder, he pulled the man in front of him, using him as a shield.

What he didn't expect was for the suit to deflect the bullets. They seemed to freeze and fall to the ground, much like Peggy Carter's fired bullets had on a vibranium shield, so long ago.

He was frozen. All these things just kept getting thrown at him. The man surged up into another attack, but Bucky ran--he jumped down to where part of the building gutted out. He landed soundly on the balls of his feet, twisting around and jumping again. A high, screeching sound followed behind him, from the cat's claws raking against the cement wall.

When Bucky landed on Earth, he kept running, not daring to look back at the gunfire that tore through the sidewalk behind him. He saw a way out, he jumped--

He was surrounded by cars. Still, no choice but to run, so he did. In the path that could one day be a bike lane, he pushed himself even harder, the strap of the backpack digging into the middle of his chest. But he wouldn't dare undo that buckle.

Bending his knees, he pushed off the ground and propelled himself up. His boots fell firmly on the back of an SUV. He continued on, air rushing around him, throwing him off balance, but the added speed of the vehicle helped his case.

The sirens were deafening. This was a scene, through and through. It brought attention, which brought his place in the public-eye, in news reports and talk shows where writers and reporters tore him apart limb by limb, flayed him alive. _He has to pay for his crimes._

And his most desperate thought always was, despite all of his nightmares and the blood on his hands; _they aren't my crimes to pay._

Bucky jumped over a barrier, and Steve--in the Special Forces SUV--followed. He closed his hand around the handlebar of a bike and pulled it into a twist, shoving the rider off with his free hand--he felt guilty, but he always did. As the bike spun, he pushed himself up, getting his feet on either side of the seat. When the tires fell to Earth, so did he, but the bike surged onward. Bucky's hands felt strangely at home on the handlebars, and his feet knew what to do. He zipped through the traffic like it was what he was born to do, getting out of the law's clutches.

He just wanted to see his kid. Was that such a horrible thing to need?

He almost jumped when the man in the black cat suit landed on him. He pulled him up off the back wheel, over his head. Behind him, he hears the person with the little voice curse--

He found himself careening the bike to the side, propping the heel of his metal hand on the asphalt. He kicked the man off of him, sending him to God-knows-where, and pushed the bike back up into it's normal position.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out one of the few bombs he did carry. He triggered it and threw it up onto the edge of the overpass as he rode through, winning the reluctant race. Behind him, the cement and debris rained down on his pursuers.

But he wasn't as lucky as he thought.

Claws ripped into his clothes, tugging him off the back of the bike. They rolled onto the grey freeway, and then Steve was rolling over him, a blur of red, white, and blue, wrapping his arms around the black suit's waist and throwing him off.

Bucky, though he knew Steve was on his feet and watching his back, pushed himself up. Standing at Steve's shoulder felt right, despite the circumstances.

And then they were surrounded. A metal suit fell down, making three into four, closing them in a square. He held his bright palms out to him and to the man in the cat suit, yelling, "Stand down, now!"

Steve seemed to know the man in the suit, and put his shield on his back. "Congradulations, Cap. You're a criminal." As Bucky wanted to scream in protest, his wrists were grabbed, and he was forced to the rough ground beneath them.


	10. NOT A CHAPTER. PLEASE READ!

Last time I updated was, what, November? Wow.

I'm posting this because so many people have been commenting for more, asking if this story is abandoned and such. I'm here saying this because it isn't.

I made a note in one of my other interrupted fics, No Longer Hiding, when everything was going on. I didn't get to do that here. So, here goes.

My dad died on November third. Mentally, a lot of things have been shut off since. Schoolwork is almost impossible, especially for the subjects I actually like. I was tired before, I haven't had restful sleep in three years, and the past few months I have been a walking zombie. I had to move back in with my mom after two and half years of living soley with my dad, and I had moved out for very important reasons. My aunt and grandma wanted to fight for custody, but they aren't allowed to unless there is physical proof of abuse.

Writing is one of the things that has been really hard. The Backup and No Longer Hiding were the two posted fics I was working on at the time. Instantly, everything was blocked. It made the whole ordeal worse, because writing is what I do to remain stable. If I don't, I become a complete asshole. It keeps me healthier than I could be without it, it helps me cope. And my dad, I never showed him any of my writing. I wanted it to be perfect. His opinion is the only one that truly matters, and my anxiety wanted to hold off on it. I was going to show him something, a piece I almost won an award for, but by the time we had gotten home I'd forgotten about it.

But nothing could help me cope with losing the most important person in my life. At losing him, everything broke. Future ideas, getting my license, my safety from my mom, my most important support system, his fiance's family (they were going to get married that week), my childhood home. Everything just...shattered.

I've tried to come and write this, but it's just really hard. One, the scripts. I had rewriting them. It bothers me. Two, Bucky's a dad. They lost each other. It makes me really emotional, and I can't keep my head on straight long enough to get through Civil War. I have everything after Homecoming written to the last chapter, besides a gap in Endgame that's in Natasha's POV.

I have been able to write one thing, aside from short poorly written one shots. Rule The World Or Drown. Keeping that in mind, this is what I have decided; Once RTWOD is done, I will come back to my "abandoned" fics. That is a promise. It's a vague time estimate, I know, but it's the best thing I can do. RTWOD is halfway done. Four more chapters, five if you include the unimportant bonus. I love writing it, it comes out so well. Each chapter takes a couple of weeks, including editing and rereading.

Thank you guys, for sticking with me and reading this. I really am sorry, for you guys and myself, that there haven't been Backup updates. It sucks, I know. So many people have embraced this story and I love how many people love it.

Seriously, I love you guys. (I'm sorry for how all over the place this is, I didn't mean for that.)  
Ash


	11. девять | NINE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's not the only Winter Soldier...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we get into this, I have a few things to say.
> 
> 1) The comments on the past chapter, where I wrote about my dad and writer's block, were amazing. Thank you guys so much for your support. Some of the comments made me tear up, a few of them even made me cry. You are all so amazing, and I'm so happy that you are the people who read this story.
> 
> 2) Today's my birthday! This is a gift, from me to you guys! I was able to focus long enough yesterday to get through the scripts. It's not the best it could be, but I'm cool with it.
> 
> 3) The Backup will be fully continued when my other fic, Rule The World Or Drown, is completed. Just like I promised before. This exists because I found "inspiration."
> 
> Enjoy, peeps!

**2016**

Captain America being angry was one thing. Steve Rogers being angry was in its own category completely.

And right now, he was pissed off.

Bucky had been lifted up on a forklift. To the government, he was a subdued, caged wild animal, and Steve couldn't believe it. He was a person. Walks and talks like a duck, must be a duck. Well, Bucky lived, just like any other person. Steve saw the notebooks filled with his jagged memories, the chocolate bars, the sad little sleeping bag on the broken-down mattress. The little notions of life, of living, the things that made him human...The government hadn't taken the time to see that he was trying to heal.

He was healing. He was doing good. But not good enough to look at a living memory. Steve's closest friend wouldn't even look at him. Somehow, that made the whole ordeal even worse--because maybe Bucky wasn't lying. Maybe he didn't really know, maybe he did just read about Captain America in a museum.

But the technicalities didn't matter. They couldn't. The psychiatrist was working for something unknown, he had planned to use Bucky's past to fulfill his motives. Steve couldn't let it happen.

Steve was watching the skyline from a dirty warehouse window when Sam called, "Hey, Cap?" He immediately came back to attention, tearing his eyes away from a helicopter overhead to run through the wide hall. He ducked into the room with two entryways, to see Sam standing in front of a barely conscious Bucky.

Under his breath, slurred by--undoubtedly--pain from a headache, Bucky murmured, "Steve..." He slowly raised his head, his tired, pain-filled eyes falling on the two other men. He immediately let his gaze falln

"Which Bucky am I talking to?" He hated to do it, but he knew just regular ol' Steve Rogers wouldn't inspire any answers. He had to invoke Captain America, the deep voice and the straight posture.

His gaze flickered up a fraction. "Your mom's name was Sarah." He sounded as if he had just witnessed a miracle. Like he couldn't believe there was a woman named Sarah. Like she was everything good in the world, and he had just remembered her. He cracked a sad smile, the slightest bit of amusement lightening his heavy voice, "You used to wear newspapers in your shoes."

Bucky remembered his mother. That was all he could focus on. The Winter Soldier wouldn't care about her, but Bucky did. Steve immediately turned to Sam, raising his eyebrows in question. "Can't read that in a museum."

He looked like he wanted to scoff. "Just like that, we're supposed to be cool?"

Bucky demanded, though his voice was light and desperate, "What did I do?"

"Enough."

His entire composure shattered. He slumped further into the side of the vice, guilt covering his face. Steve had never seen his friend like this. So broken down by the world. The Bucky Barnes he remembered could smile through everything, bring the good out of anything. When Becca was taken away to finishing school after his father - the very source of his immigrant mother's stability - passed from alcohol poisoning and his mother was arrested, it was that he didn't have to deal with George Barnes any longer, that he'd find his sister some day. When Steve's mother died, it was that Steve could move in with him like they had wanted when they were kids. It was a habit that Steve had tried to keep up with in the twenty first century - Buck and Natasha had been together in Russia? Thank god they had each other to turn to. They had a baby? Steve was an uncle to what he knew to be the greatest kid in the world. "Oh, God, I knew this would happen. Everything Hydra put inside me is still there. All he had to do was say the goddamn words," he breathed, venom laced through his injured voice.

Bucky had been through so much. Peter and Natasha, too. All Steve wanted to do was make it better.

To be able to do that, he had to ask, "Who was he?"

"I don't know."

The answer was simple. Steve didn't want to dig into the fresh wound, laying down salt in his tracks. But he had to keep pushing. "People are dead. The bombing, the setup. The doctor did all that just to get 10 minutes with _you_. I need you to do better than 'I don't know.'"

He shook his head before opening his eyes. He looked suddenly clear and a touch more composed. He was remembering something, forcing himself to dig back. "He wanted to know about Siberia. Where I was kept. He wanted to know exactly where."

Why would the "physiatrist" need to know about Siberia? "Why would he need to know that?"

He suddenly looked shocked and sick. Like he had just remembered the worst thing in the world. He wiped the vulnerability from his features, looking up at Steve with a weighed, grave expression. "Because I'm not the only Winter Soldier.

The words made both Sam and Steve halt in their tracks. More Winter Soldiers? Bucky had been a myth, a ghost story, but even he had been spotted. There was nothing on more of them.

"Who were they?" he interrogated, needing the information. If the psychiatrist was going after them, was going to use them against the Avengers...if they were as powerful as Bucky, or even more so, none of them stood a chance.

"Their most elite death squad," he reported, voice level. "More kills than anyone in Hydra history, besides possibly my kid. And that was before the serum."

Sam asked from behind him, "They all turn out like you?

Bucky looked past Steve's shoulder. "Worse."

"The doctor, could he control them?" Did they have trigger words, like Bucky and Peter? Altered memories, like Natasha? Heavy programming that locked their humanity up deep inside them?

"Enough."

"...Said he wanted to see an empire fall.

He confirmed Steve's suspicions. "With these guys he could do it. They speak thirty languages, can hide in plain sight; infiltrate, assassinate, destabilize. They can take a whole country down in one night. You'd never see them coming."

Sam shifted behind him, coming up to his shoulder and pulling back a step. Under his breath, he made a low-level, masked complaint; "This would have been a lot easier a week ago."

"If we call Tony...

He shook his head, his hard expression stomping the idea into the concrete ground beneath them. "No, he won't believe us."

Stwve agreed. It had been a dumb idea. "Even if he did..." He let himself trail off. The Accords.

His friend rolled his eyes. "Who knows if the Accords would let him help," he voiced, reading Steve's mind.

"We're on our own." When weren't they? From DC to New York to across the Atlantic, Sam was an ally when he had barely anyone else.

A smirk suddenly twisted Sam's lips. With an ounce of hope, he murmured, "Maybe not." At Steve's questioning look, he elaborated just a little bit; "I know a guy."

**||||||||||**

"They'll get a hit. We'll handle it," Tony was trying to convince Ross as Natasha swept back into the room, having left Sharon to her own devices.

"You don't get it, Stark. It's not yours to handle. It's clear you can't be objective. I'm putting Special Ops on this."

"What happens when the shooting starts?" Natasha questioned, walking up to them with a straight, sturdy posture. She wouldn't show how this affected her. It was a weakness that, supposedly, only the other Avengers knew. But she wouldn't put the government out of the plan. If someone wanted to know something, they'd figure it out. "What, do you kill Steve Rogers?"

"If we're provoked. Barnes would've been eliminated in Romania if it wasn't for Rogers. There are dead people who would be alive now. Feel free to check my math."

She couldn't believe this. The government couldn't just kill him because he was no longer under their control. That wasn't how the world was supposed to work - it wasn't how all of this, the Accords, was supposed to work. Steve was supposed to retire, stay out of things. She had even told him to stay out of it, after the bombing. Not run headfirst into firing guns. Bucky was perfectly capable of protecting himself.

Tony seemingly had an alike thought process as her. "All due respect, you're not going to solve this with boys in bullets, Ross. You gotta let us bring them in."

Two super soldiers against regular people? They had tried that in Bucharest. Natasha wanted to tell Ross to open his eyes and see the bigger picture - Bucky was clearly framed. Everyone would be better off letting the three of them go.

"How would that end any differently from the last time?"

"Because this time, I won't be wearing loafers and a silk shirt." She barely kept herself from rolling her eyes. She thought, _Too much testosterone for my liking. Everyone thinks they know best._ "Seventy two hours, guaranteed."

Clearly reluctant, Ross agreed. "Thirty six hours. Barnes. Rogers. Wilson."

He gave a small incline of his head. "Thank you, sir." As soon as Ross walked away, he immediately exhaled heavily, massaging his arm and slumping down into an armchair. "My left arm is numb, is that normal?"

 _Mmn. Could be a heart attack._ She patted his shoulder, finding that his suit was surprisingly soft. She asked, gently, "You alright?" Despite his gigantic ego, Tony meant well.

"Always," he lied. His eye was purple and his brow was split. At least he hadn't been choked. She knew, from her time as a PA, that it would have sent him spiraling. He scoffed. "Thirty six hours, jeez."

"We're seriously understaffed," she said, nodding toward their recent drop of numbers. The Accords tore her new family apart.

"Oh, yeah. It'd be great if we had a Hulk right about now." He looked up at her, a false hope in his eyes. "Any shot?"

"No. You really think he'd be on our side?" Bruce would sooner fold his lab coat than let the government control him. Anything to keep the Hulk out of dangerous, greedy hands.

"No," he said, a little dejectedly. Natasha suddenly felt bad - Bruce had been a friend to all of them. A source of positivity in the midst of aliens and HYDRA operations. He had been a grounding for her - a good friend. She had never had many of those.

"I have an idea."

"Me too. Where's yours?"

"Downstairs." She cocked her head. "Where's yours?"


	12. десять | TEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why wouldn't he recognize his son?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rule The World Or Drown is done, so, as promised, here I am. (The series that RTWOD is in has some sequel business going on, so I'm still going to be paying attention to that. But I'm not just going to focus solely on those projects.)
> 
> The beginnings of the airport battle. We're almost done with the portion that's been on my nerves. After this we get all the weird things I planned for HoCo!
> 
> I hope all of you guys are safe and feeling healthy. I just came down with some weird stuff today, and my mom is paranoid that I have corona. I've told her multiple times to take her chill pills.
> 
> I also had a small username change. This is my Instagram and Wattpad username, what ADM stands for (:

**2016**

  
Inside the airport, Natalia was waiting to face her worst fear. The Black Widow did not challenge the Winter Soldier. The fall did not withstand the winter; that was the natural law of the world. The metal arm somewhere in the German airport was the written commandment, and the red in her hair was the signature.

She wasn't sure if she could stand to be on the side that wasn't his own.

Steve walked through the underpass, purpose keeping his chin high. He started toward a runway where a helicopter sat, vulnerable and there for the taking. But before he could get close enough, one of Tony's electric disablers soared through the air, landing around the chopper blades.

Tony and Rhodes both landed on the concrete ground, their metal-encassed feet making deep, metallic _thunks_. Tony said, sarcastically, a non-greeting to Steve, "Wow, it's so weird how you run into people at the airport. Don't you think that's weird?"

Rhodes played along. "Definitely weird."

"Hear me out, Tony," Steve insisted. "That doctor--the psychiatrist--he's behind all of this."

The power went out with the "psychiatrist" in the room, Natasha reminded herself. When they next saw James, he was the Asset. Nothing was right about it.

The Wakandan king leaped over a truck, entering Steve's line of sight. Decked in his panther suit, he grumbled, "Captain."

He flicked his eyes toward the king, and nodded his head. "Your highness."

Tony interrupted, "Anyway, Ross gave me thirty six hours to bring you in. That was twenty four hours ago. Can you help a brother out?"

"You're after the wrong guy."

"Your judgment is askew. Your old war buddy killed innocent people yesterday."

He wouldn't. Not in his own mind.

"And there are five more super soldiers just like him!" he protested, trying to get to his point. Natasha perked up in interest, but her friend didn't go on. "I can't let the doctor find them first, Tony. I can't."

"Steve, you know what's about to happen. Do you really wanna punch your way out of this one?" Steve turned to look at her. For the first time, they were not on the same side. It was a shift in the atmosphere, a change in the weather--Captain America and the Black Widow not fighting side by side? Unheard of.

"All right, I've run out of patience. _Underoos_!"

A shadow passed overhead. Webbing attached to the edge of the shield and pulled it away, another shot tying up Steve's hands at the wrists. The assailant landed on the back of a white truck--one leg folded underneath him, the shield tucked safely on his arm. He raised his head almost menacingly.

Tony congratulated, "Nice job, kid."

"Thanks." He rambled, nervously, "Well, I could've stuck the landing a little better. It's just the new suit...Well, it's nothing, Mr. Stark. It's--it's perfect. Thank you."

"Yeah, we don't really need to start a conversation."

"Okay...Cap-Captain." He gave Steve, his opponent, a sweet little wave. "Big fan. I'm Spider-Man."

"Yeah, we'll talk about it later. Just..."

"Hey, everyone."

"Good job."

"You've been busy," Steve said, making small talk. He took his eyes off the boy, turning them back on Stark.

Tony whirled on him, anger flaring in his tired eyes. "And you've been a complete idiot. Dragging in Clint. 'Rescuing' Wanda from a place she doesn't even want to leave, a safe place. I'm trying to keep..." his voice died, and he huffed. "I'm trying to keep you from tearing the Avengers apart."

Steve inclined his head just slightly. "You did that when you signed."

||||||||||

Bucky and Sam stayed crouched in the terminal, both remaining silent as Sam scanned the airport with his little bot--Bucky refused to call it by its name--his fingertips on the side of his goggles. Suddenly, he said, "We found it. The quinjet's in Hangar Five, North Runway." The two started to run through the terminal, in the direction of the jet. "Tony and Rhoades have heat detectors. We'll have company soon enough," Sam informed him.

There was a sound from outside of the glass. "What the hell is that?" he exclaimed, looking past Sam at the blue-and-red-clad figure that had landed on the window.

"Everyone's got a gimmick now!" Bucky could have laughed at how done Sam seemed to be.

The figure shot webs from his wrist, and Bucky momentarily forgot their goal. He had only ever known of one person able to do that.

_The Soldier's handlers had warned him of the Backup's new weapon, but it was still a surprise when webbing shot past his chest and attached to the enemy running at him. The Backup yanked the strand, and the Soldier raised his arm and slammed it into the rogue agent's forehead._

_The Backup's eyes were full of sickness. The Soldier knew they didn't have the same treatments._

In the time that he had disappeared into memory, the window had been broken, Sam had been knocked down, and the unknown hero whirled around to face him. Bucky lashed out, but the person caught his metal fist.

"You have a metal arm? That is awesome, dude!"

Bucky's eyes widened, his arm instinctively lowering. He knew that voice too well. He opened his mouth to speak, only for Sam to swoop down and grab him.

He ran after Sam and who he desperately believed was his son. He put his fingertip to his comm. "Sam, get his mask off."

"What?"

"His name is Peter. Get his mask off. If anyone else is paying attention; if we don't get it, can you guys try?"

After a few seconds, Steve asked, "Your son?"

"I'm pretty sure. If any of you get his mask off, you need to tell me." He ducked behind a pillar. "Sam, you're on your own. I can't hurt him unless he comes after me."

"You don't know if he is or not!" he exclaimed, pushing the boy off of him. Bucky watched from around the pillar, watching every move the boy was making. As he landed on a rafter, he fell into the pose that he had been taught at a young age.

"That's him. I know his voice anywhere."

Sam launched himself back around, knocking Peter off the rafters. He shot out a web, pulling himself out from under the Falcon. With the upper hand, he shot a web at Sam's wing pack. Bucky followed them as he watched Sam's wings pull into the device, causing him to fall through a stand. Sam jumped up, but Peter webbed his hands to the railing.

"Are those wings carbon-fiber?

"Is this stuff coming out of him?" Sam muttered.

"No. It's web fluid cartridges," Bucky answered as Peter told Sam, "That would explain the rigidity-flexibility ratio, which, gotta say, that's awesome, man."

"I don't know if you've ever been in a fight before, but there's not usually this much talk."

"Alright, sorry, my bad." He launched a web at the ceiling and swung down, raising his legs to kick Sam in the chest. Bucky jumped in front of him, taking the brunt of the blow and grabbing onto Peter. He twisted around the younger boy so his arms were wrapped around his shoulders and chest in an unsupported piggy-back. The unexpected weight and movement caused them to hit the glass, crashing out of the terminal.

The two hit the ground, Bucky underneath him. The boy elbowed him in the jaw, harshly pushing his head into the concrete. Bucky stuck his metal arm between them, clasped the back of Peter's neck, and threw him off as he rolled over on top of him. Under his breath, he pleaded, "Peter, it's me. Come on."

"How the hell do you know my name?" he exclaimed, trying to fight his way out from under him.

"I gave it to you!" He reached for the mask, but Peter ducked his head to the side and grabbed his wrist, twisting it hard enough to pull him off. Bucky tightened his legs around him, pulling him along. Peter let him go, sat up, and webbed his wrists down to the concrete ground. As he tried to fight his way out of Bucky's hold, Bucky hissed, " _ **Spider. Mission report. Now**_."

The boy froze, his body going slack and his chin dropping. " ** _I have found my way in_**." As soon as he finished speaking, he was back to fighting his way out. He pushed his elbows down into Bucky's hips, causing him to cry out and let the boy go. Standing up, he huffed, "I don't know who you are or how you think you know me, but I have one plan today and I gotta impress Mr. Stark. So, I'm sorry." He turned into a jump, shot a web off into the airport, and swung away.

Sam dropped down beside him, his wings folding into the fixed device. "You okay?" he asked, pulling a knife from his leg. He crouched down to cut the webs.

"They brainwashed him. He's still working for HYDRA."

Sam rolled his eyes and helped Bucky get to his feet. "I was just a pararescue. I could've stayed a therapist. Why did I let Steve in my house? Come on. We need to get to the jet." He started off, Bucky following close behind.

But those with his kind of luck never win. The quinjet was so close, the shot was so clear.

It was too good to be true.


	13. одиннадцать | ELEVEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's not done yet...

"I didn't kill your father," Bucky choked out, voice strained from the hand around his throat. He and the king had each other in a vice. Their eyes were locked, but Bucky couldn't gouge anything because the vibranium helmet covered the other man's face.

T'Challa growled, "Then why did you run?" He pulled Bucky's hand from his throat, and kicked him backward into a pile of crates. Dazed, he saw a blurry Black Panther lunge forward, shiny claws on his fingertips--red wound around his hand, and Wanda threw him into the gangway.

Bucky jumped up, running toward where Natalia was regaining her composure after Wanda had thrown her away from Clint. He tackled her around the waist, twisting his body so he landed on his back--his shoulders taking the brunt of the force. He swung around onto his knees and pinned her down to the concrete. "Natalia."

She swallowed, not backing down. She glared up at him. "James."

He cocked his head. "You remember me."

"Of course I do." She kneed him hard in his liver. He rolled off, pressing his hand to where he knew it would bruise, if only for a few hours at most, and pushed himself to his feet. She flicked her hair away from her face as she stood up, pulling her black batons from their holders.

"Make it look real?" he smirked.

She nodded, shortly, before launching herself at him. Though it was so long ago, their movements were not forgotten--fighting was what they knew better than anything, and she had learned how to from him. He taught her almost everything she knew.

She pushed the end of her baton toward his elbow, and he caught it in his metal hand and pulled her along for the ride. Now closer to him, she asked in a low voice, "What do you need?"

"They told us our baby was dead. It was never true. He was put in my care when he was ten, and I have been raising him since. His name is Peter."

She suddenly looked sick, her green eyes widening and her mouth hanging open. She touched her hand to her stomach, beginning to shake her head. Her body then snapped, and she kicked him toward storage trucks behind them muttering, "I know. He talked to me, on the highway. He tried to steal from the tower, but he wouldn't let us help him." She tried to kick him in the stomach again, but he caught her by the calf. She curled her leg around his waist, swinging herself around him. She was suddenly on his shoulders, ankles locked over his chest, hands in his hair. She used the momentum to tug him away from the eyes of others, until their backs were against one of the storage trucks.

He bucked her off, keeping a hand on her leg so she wouldn't go flying. Once she came off his shoulders, he curled his arm around her back and guided her down. "When I left Hydra, I had no choice but to leave him there--and I tell you, I'll regret that every day for the rest of my goddamn life. Hydra still stands and he is working for them. I got his mission report. He said he found his way in. And right now he's right out there, trying to impress Stark."

He saw her body clamp down on its urges--she wanted to turn and run to the boy in the blue and red. "James, why--?"

"I don't know. But we have to figure it out. I can't stay with him right now. That kills me, but it's true. I need someone to have his back. Someone he can trust."

"If you tell me what's going on with the psychiatrist, I'll get you and Steve out of here."

"He wants to wake up the other Winter Soldiers."

She blanched. "Why would he -" Realization covered her face, and she turned toward her friends, where there were small explosions and yelling and fighting. She slowly came back to face him, determination setting her face back to marble. "We can't let them wake up."

He couldn't help the small smile that ghosted over his lips. Know that he remembered her, he missed her more than he ever had before - her laughter, her love, her allegiance, her sense humanity. He missed being able to hold her in his arms, pressing soft kisses to her even softer skin.

He just missed being with her, even if it meant running missions with blood on their hands and death in their mouths.

One of the trucks was blown away, and Bucky grabbed onto her - wrapped his arms around her torso and threw them both to the side. They settled when he was on his back and her thighs framed his hips. Her batons were out again and she wacked him across the face - so the Avengers would get the impression that they weren't ass friendly as they looked to be, or as she should be - and got up to her feet, leaving him behind.

Bucky rolled to the side, only getting up once he was behind another white mechanism he never planned to get to know the name of. As he was looking through the gap at the still-fighting Avengers - eyes tracking Peter, swinging and flipping around - Steve came to an unsteady halt beside him.

"We have to go. The guy's probably in Siberia right now," he told Steve, speaking under his breath.

"I thought you wanted your kid?"

He pressed his lips together briefly, looking away from where he had been watching him. "We can't allow the other Winter Soldiers to wake up."

"We gotta draw out the flyers," Steve noted. He stood straight again, pushing himself away from the truck. He glanced up, tightening the leather straps of his shield. "I'll take Vision. You get to the jet."

"No, you get to the jet!" Sam exclaimed over the comms, voice tinny andcrackly over the line. "Both of you!" He then admitted, resigned, "The rest of us aren't getting out of here."

"As much as I hate to admit it, if we're gonna win this one, some of us might have to lose it," Clint added.

"This isn't the real fight, Steve." The unspoken reference to Serbia settled, heavy in their bones.

Steve nodded after a few moments, knowing he wouldn't be able to argue with them - because they were right. "Alright, Sam. What's the play?"

"We need a diversion. Something big."

"I got something kind of big," Scott said, "but I can't hold it very long. On my signal, run like hell. And if I tear myself in half...don't come back for me.

Bucky muttered, looking at Steve, "He's gonna tear himself in half?

His friend gave him an equally confused look, but he spoke like it was business as usual. "You're sure about this, Scott?"

He waved off their concern with a light, "I do it all the time. I mean, once...in a lab. Then I passed out." He inhaled deeply, and whispered to himself, "I'm the boss. I'm the boss. I'm the boss. I'm the boss. I'M THE BOSS!"

They both spun around when they heard a louder disturbance, stumbling back when they saw Scott as tall as a plane was long.

Steve said, dryly, "I guess that's the signal." He then grabbed onto Bucky--who was stuck in absolute wonder--and dragged him into a run, immediately letting him go as soon as Bucky got the memo. They sprinted toward the hanger the quinjet was in. Bucky kept pushing himself to go on, knowing the second he slowed down he wouldn't be able to keep himself from turning around and returning to Peter's side.

A yellow blast came from somewhere behind them. The tower beside the hanger opening was cut apart, crumbling under the force. It fell to the side, over the opening of the hangar. The two super soldiers sped up. As they came closer, a blanket of red appeared underneath the incoming wreckage, wrapping it and holding it up. They had just made it to the hangar when the red disappeared and the wreckage fell around them. Bucky raised his arms to protect his head and rolled, so he was low on the ground, and came out the other side with Steve beside him, where the girl with hair of fire awaited them.

Bucky locked eyes with Natalia. She gave him a little shrug. "I told you I'd help," she said, almost meekly. She raised her arm and fired one of the electric bullets from her wrist. Bucky followed it with his eyes, turning to see it hit the Wakandan king as he was crawling out from under the debris. Electricity crackled through him, and he fell, convulsing, to the floor.

"Now go, before more of them come in." She looked down at the unconscious king. Steve immediately raced into the jet - the belly open and lowered for entry. But Bucky hung behind a little, pacing up to the girl he knew better than only one other thing.

"Thank you." He kissed her cheek - pausing briefly to run his nose over her cheekbone. Her eyes fluttered shut as she leaned into him. Hands itching to hold her--she was so close, her hair smelled like wild berries--he whispered, "Make sure he's safe. Please." and ran past her, following Steve into the quinjet. He kept his neck tight and shoulders pushed up, so he wouldn't look back.

Steve looked over his shoulder when Bucky ran into the jet. When he turned back to the controls, he said, "Talk to me, Buck."

He sighed, letting his head fall back against the metal wall. Remembering everything he used to tell his son, he said, his voice low, "I was supposed to keep him from the storm." But that wasn't the only thing wrong.

||||||||||

Peter slid over the flat top of a plane, shooting his webs at the airport to get away from the large hands swiping at him. He still couldn't believe that this is what Mr. Stark brought him here for. He had always wanted to meet the Avengers, and though this wasn't exactly the definition of a meet-and-greet, saying that he had fought Captain America and Scarlet Witch was pretty cool, too. "Hey, guys, you ever see that really old movie, Empire Strikes Back?"

War Machine exclaimed over the communication system, "Jesus, Tony, how old is this guy?"

"I don't know, I didn't carbon-date him. He's on the young side."

Peter hit the ground running, and shot a web at the wing of a plane sitting way overhead. He pulled on the strand, which propelled him up. He shot more webs at Supersized Ant-Man's chest. "You know that part...where they're on the snow planet..." he wrapped his webbing around the man's legs, "with the walking thingies?"

"Maybe the kid's on to something," Mr. Stark said.

War Machine was quick to react. "High now, Tony. Go high."

Before he knew it, a metallic clang rang through the airport, and Ant-Man Supreme began to fall back, overcome by his center of gravity.  Swinging away, excited that his plan had worked, Peter exclaimed, "YES!" An accomplished laugh bubbled from his throat. "That was _awesome_!"

A gigantic hand hit him, hard enough to snap his web and send him flying. He crashed through boxes before tumbling onto the concrete ground. His muscles went tight because everything in him told him not to move, or else he'd hurt even worse. He felt like he had when he first jumped off a building and hadn't yet learned how to maneuver the city, so he slammed into the building and had to climb down. He felt like he had when he came out of the machine his dad had told him to always avoid--

_What?_

"Kid, you alright?"

Swept up in his anxiety, mask halfway off, he fought back before the person could touch him. "Hey! Get off me!" _I can't go back to the chair. No, no, get off me!_

"Same side. Guess who." His mask was pulled up higher, freeing one of his eyes. Mr. Stark crouched over him, and a sense of relief washed through Peter. "Hi. It's me."

He sighed, letting his definitely-bruised ribs relax. "Oh. Hey, man."

"Yeah.

"That was scary," he confessed.

Mr. Stark didn't understand him. "Yeah. You're done. Alright?"

 _Why am I done? I'm never done. "_ What?"

"You did a good job. Stay down."

He had to get up. This was weakness, and he knew very well what happened when he showed weakness. "No, I'm good. I'm fine."

"Stay down."

"No, it's good I gotta get him back!" He then thought, _Who?_

Mr. Stark looked equally confused. He said, voice hard and unforgiving, "You're going home or I'll call Aunt May! You're done!" He burst off the pavement, flying away.

He started to get up. "Wait. Mr. Stark, wait! I'm not done, I'm not..." he looked up when he heard a plane overhead, to see a quinjet flying higher and higher, but still low to the ground. Raising his wrists, he promised, "I'm not done yet."


	14. двенадцать | TWELVE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Siberia

**2016**

  
Bucky sat on one of the benches in the quinjet, legs folded up against his chest, his heels on the seat. Steve told him they were stuck in the plane for just over two hours, so he thought that he light as well get comfortable and overthink.

He felt like a failure. He couldn't do anything to convince himself otherwise. He just willingly left his son - who he had been separated from for two years, the biggest reason Bucky fought for himself (if he was himself again, if he was strong and stable, he could save Peter. But every trace of his son had vanished) - behind, he left Natalia alone.

He had never wanted to abandon her again. He failed her so many times before; he caused her a world of pain. He hadn't been able to fulfill his promise of getting their family away from the Soviets, away from the cruelty that they weren't willing to let their baby know and be taken over by, like they were.

But will didn't matter. The Winter Soldier had very few weaknesses, but Hydra and Department X knew them very well, and he left Natalia alone at the utter of 'Sputnik.'

This time, it was his choice to turn his back. But it was for the greater good, right? Stop Zemo, the other Soldiers, then he could have the love of his life in a way he had never been able to before - with no fear, no need to look over his shoulder or to bite down into his forearm to keep from making any sound. He could have his son back, do all the things for him that he wanted to, give him a good home where his parents were together and there were no agents patrolling the halls.

A guy could dream. They never came true. So he didn't give his hopes up. Instead, he asked Steve, who sat in the pilot's seat and was focused on the mountains the quinjet was approaching, "What's gonna happen to your friends?"

He heard Steve sigh. "Whatever it is...I'll deal with it."

They had no idea what would happen to the others. If he was honest, it upset him. It put Wanda into harm's way, when that girl had been through so much pain already. Clint seemed like a good guy, Steve said he had family and retired to spend more time with them. He didn't deserve to be taken away from them just for trying to help them do the right thing. He had no idea who Scott was, the way he had gawked over Steve was so _typical_. Sam...Bucky didn't really care about him, but Steve did, so he felt aligned to him in solidarity. It was the least he could do.

None of them should be locked up, for not wanting to give their rights away. For being pulled down by Bucky's problems, which Steve thought were his problems, too.

Overwhelmed by the guilt he felt of the very idea of Wanda's hands chained up, of Clint and Sam in clanging shackles, he confessed, "I don't know if I'm worth all this, Steve."

His friend - Steve was his friend. Always had, always would be. That was something Bucky could always trust, it seemed - turned around in the seat, glancing over his shoulder. "What you did all those years...it wasn't you. You didn't have a choice."

"I know. But I did it." And that was the sad truth. He tried so hard not to let Zola take away his humanity - his morals, his name, his memories. Fought for twenty long years, until the pain was too much and it would be so much easier if he just...gave in. His world went from warm and sunny to an arctic wasteland. Then Natalia stepped into his life, and melted the ice.

She was his saviour. She made his life's purpose possible. She and Peter rebuilt Bucky Barnes, in the ways they had loved him.

There was a stone-cold silence, then Steve asked, voice hard, "Would you tell Peter that?" Bucky didn't respond, because Steve knew his answer--no. He had never told him anything of the sort.

They weren't bad people. They just no longer had the chance to be good.

But maybe that option had finally resurfaced, after all these years.

||||||||||

Natasha didn't regret a damn thing. Tony was angry with her, but that didn't matter. Ross had no idea what he would be up against if the Winter Soldiers were freed.

She just hoped that Steve and James made it in time.

"The doctors say he shattered L4 through S1," Tony's voice said from behind her. She turned and watched him come to a stop beside her, as he gave her the info on Rhodey's state. "Extreme laceration in the spinal cord. Probably looking at some form of paralysis."

"Steve's not gonna stop. If you don't either, Rhodey's gonna be the best case scenario."

He finally set the blame on her, just like she knew he had been wanting to since the Feds and medical had arrived at the airport. Tony's glare had been searing, but he hadn't been there to see Wanda burst into tears as her arms were chained into a cross over her abdomen, as if she were hugging herself, then her wrists bound from behind her back. The sight had made them all sick. Clint had tried to get to her, which made them shoot him in the neck with some sort of tranq. "You let them go, Nat."

"We played this wrong," she insisted. The Accords weren't meant to protect people - it was meant to tear them apart, isolate the enhanced that weren't willing and punish them for not wanting to sign their rights away to their country.

"'We'?" Tony echoed, incredulously. He shook his head. "Boy, it must be hard to shake the whole double agent thing, huh? It sticks in the DNA."

"Are you incapable of letting go of your ego for one goddamn second? You brought my son--" Tony's hard expression faltered, flickering with shock, "--into the fight, and then lost him."

He didn't say a word on the matter, just regained his composure and fixed a cold gaze on her. "T'Challa told Ross what you did, so...they're coming for you."

She could care less. She knew how to run and hide, how to start over so no one she previously knew would ever find her. Fueled by anger, she cautioned the man that had once been her ally--her friend; "I'm not the one that needs to watch their back."

||||||||||

He selected the machine gun, an M249, from the rack labeled with a blocky-lettered **ROMANOFF**. He made sure to push the rack closed before taking his place beside Steve - watching the ramp open as he tried to convince himself he could complete the mission.

Stop the man that had used his weakness for a personal cause. If not, kill him, then the Winter Soldiers--they had no business being alive.

He wasn't going to feel guilty for killing when it was necessary. For killing people that had wronged him, that in the hands of evil were formed to be the embodiment of the flawed cause.

As if he could see his thoughts, Steve tried to distract him. "You remember that time we had to ride back from Rockaway Beach in the back of that freezer truck?"

Decided not to burst his bubble, Bucky let him. "Was that the time we used our train money to buy hot dogs?"

The addition made Steve smile. It was familiar, and Bucky could see the grateful gleam in his eyes. "You blew three bucks trying to win that stuffed bear for a redhead."

He vaguely remembered. The redhead wore a green and white dress, giggled and blushed as Bucky flirted relentlessly and kept failing at the rigged game. He finally won on what was going to be his last round, let her pick out the giant bear she had been trying to get before he stepped in when she had been retreating. "What was her name again?

"Dolores. You called her Dot."

Dot. That fit. She had been cute. He turned to Steve with a small curl to the corner of his mouth. "I think I may have a type.

He let loose a sudden laugh. "You think?" He took his helmet in hand and slipped it on, starting down the ramp and into the snowstorm.

Bucky didn't know how Steve could handle the cold. After getting stuck in cryo, he always felt cold, and it caused a nagging feeling in his gut. But Steve was frozen for a solid sixty years.

"He couldn't have been here more than a few hours," Steve noted, when they came up to the open doorway in a pile of rock.

Bucky frowned, squeezing the grip of the machine gun. "Long enough to wake them up."

They walked into the bunker, submerging themselves deep into the evil that had once been Bucky's life. The elevator ride was bumpy and the shaft was small, but neither of them said a word as they stared at one another with their grave expressions. When the elevator came to a stop, Stvee knelt down and pulled up the cage, and the doors opened in response.

Bucky hefted the gun in his hands and stepped out. They paced through a dark corridor, then started up a small flight of cement stairs when a loud, metallic thud sounded from behind them. As if in sync, they whirled around, gun and shield up at attention.

Steve checked on him with a short, "You ready?"

Finger on the trigger, Bucky breathed out, "Yeah."

Tony Stark forced the doors open, the eyes of his helmet glowing in their gloomy surroundings. The faceplate flicked up, revealing his face. He studied their stance, the shield in front of both of them and the gun above Steve's head, aimed right at Stark's chest. "You seem a little defensive."

Steve broke from the formation, lowering the shield and moving to stand in front of Stark. Bucky kept his gun up and ready, just in case. He wasn't putting the airport behind him.

Steve excused their wary defences. "It's been a long day."

Stark glanced over Steve's shoulder, locking his eyes on Bucky's. "At ease, Soldier. I'm not currently after you."

"Then why are you here?" Steve demanded.

"Could be your story's not so crazy. Maybe. Ross has no idea I'm here. I'd like to keep it that way. Otherwise, I gotta arrest myself."

"Well, that sounds like a lot of paperwork." He let the arm with his shield strapped to it fall to his side, squaring his shoulders and pulling his back straight. Truthfully, he confessed, "It's good to see you, Tony.

"You too, Cap." With that response, a bitter taste filled Bucky's mouth. This truce wasn't going to last, he knew that much. Stark suddenly turned his full attention on him, exclaiming, "Hey, Manchurian Candidate, you're killing me. There's a truce here. You can drop..."

At Steve's signal, Bucky reluctantly let the barrel drop.

"Let's get on the move," Stark directed them with a false cheer. Steve fixed his jaw, and the two men started toward the little stairwell.

"Papa," a voice behind them croaked. Bucky knew that voice, better than anything. He whirled back around just as soon as he had turned to climb the rest of the way up the cement steps, Steve and Stark turning to see. Peter stood there at the double doors, unsteady on his feet. His childlike eyes wide with fear, slowly turning red and irritated. He stumbled forward, and Bucky launched himself past the two other men and met his son in the middle, putting his hands on his torso to steady him. Peter grabbed at his shoulders, holding on desperately. He whimpered, "Don't let them do it again, Papa."

"How did he get here?" Steve asked.

"He's a trained spy. He found a way." He turned his attention back to Peter's red-rimmed eyes, raised his hand to cradle one side of his jaw. "Bub, what are you doing out here?"

His face changed from exhaustion and dread to a tired fear, and he looked at his clawed hands. He didn't release Bucky's shoulders, but he looked at him without recognition--and possibly a little fear. "Mr. Stark, whe-where are we?" he asked, not looking away from Bucky. "How did I get here?"

Stark took a step toward them, and Bucky instinctively held his son a little tighter. "I think that's for you to tell us."

Peter lost his balance again, but Bucky held him up. "They took...Don't let them--" His voice died, and his head fell limp against Bucky's chest. His hands relaxed as he went unconscious.

He pulled his son against him, wrapping his arms around his abdomen and holding him close for the first time in years. He set his chin in his hair, not turning when Steve asked, carefully, "Do we want to put him in the jet?"

"What, and have him wake up alone?" He could practically hear the roll of Stark's eyes. "That's comforting."

"What else are we supposed to do? Bring him into a fight?"

Bucky interjected, putting his foot down, "He can't go in there." He was good, but Bucky refused to let him fall into the hands of any of the Winter Soldiers. If Josef hurt Peter, he would never be able to forgive himself, and Natalia wouldn't either.

Peter startled awake, inhaling harshly before coughing into his father's chest. Bucky raised his head, letting him move.

The programming was glitching. Knowing the pain his son was in, that there was only one thing was able to do--he cursed himself for even thinking about it, but he gave in to what would help him. " ** _Spider._** "

Peter tore himself away from him, his eyes going wide. "What are you doing?"

He spoke in a gentle, soothing voice, that he remembered his mother speaking to himself in, "What needs to be done."

He suddenly looked sick. He grabbed at Bucky's face, pressing the heel of his hand under his chin to keep his mouth closed. " ** _You're not saying it. I'm here to help_**."

"Hey, kid, it really creeps me out when you do that, so can you stop with the Russian?"

Peter glanced over Bucky's shoulder, his eyes narrowing. Bucky took his chance, spinning and grabbing Peter's wrist, twisting his arm behind his back. Peter yelled as his body was forced to fold at the waist. "You promised!" He twisted himself so his arm wasn't wrenched, kicking his legs up to wrap them around Bucky's shoulders and quickly wrenched him down to the floor. Bucky grunted under Peter's arms--one locked under his chin, his other forearm pressed his top jaw into one place, so he couldn't move his mouth. He had his legs around his chest, in the same route as a sash, his ankles locked under his left arm.

"Queens, what's the meaning of this?" Steve asked, carefully, glancing down at Bucky's face for assurance before looking into Peter's eyes.

"You can't say it. You can't say it, it'll delete everything," Peter sobbed, hysterically. "I can't do it again. They can't take everything away from me again."

"Peter, do you have codewords?"

"Codewords?" Tony asked. "Like machines?"

"Tony, this is where you stay quiet," Steve said, his voice low. "Peter. Answer me."

"Yeah, I do."

Bucky wrenched to the side, his weight on his right arm, throwing Peter off. He scrambled up, but Bucky hissed, " ** _Home,_** " and the teenager collapsed down on the cement.

"How in hell did he get you down so easy?" Steve asked, holding a hand down.

Bucky took it, pushing himself up as Steve pulled. He didn't respond--the truth was, he hated fighting Peter despite being so used to it, and soemthing deep inside him liked to throw him off--instead took a few steps closer to Stark, who had just kneeled down beside Peter's unconscious form.

"What the hell did you do?" he demanded, his voice almost at a growl.

Bucky understood the anger, he felt it too. What he didn't understand was why Stark acted as if he were responsible for the boy. He explained, keeping himself in check, "We both have one word that triggers our brain--kind of like a short circuit. A surge. It makes us fall unconscious, and we're out for days. It's used in emergency cases."

"This was an emergency?" he shouted, letting anger free. "He's in my charge, I'm supposed to keep him safe--how am I supposed to take him back to May like this?"

"It reset him. He's now stable. He was in and out of reality before. One second he knew me as his father, the next I was the crazy assassin on the opposing team. You just saw it. Now we can put him on the jet. Keep him away from them--" he pointed blindly into the base, "--because he can't face them."

Steve stepped between them, pushing his arms under Peter's legs and behind his back. Hefting him up, he said, "I'll be back." Bucky watched him run out the way they came in, his son held tight in entrusted arms.

Once Steve was out of sight, Bucky turned his sparking blue eyes on Stark. "Nat told me you were the one to pull him into all of this. Why would you do that to him? Even if he was just some random kid--he's fifteen, you don't put a fifteen year old against freaks like us. He was safe, momentarily innocent."

"He's good--and he was my secret weapon--"

Red-hot flames roared deep in his chest, and he fought the urge to knock Stark down to his knees. He hissed, "If you call him a weapon again, I swear I'll rip your throat out."

"Steve didn't know he existed," he explained, speaking fast as if he could fix his mistake. "He was useful to me. Catch all of you off guard. I didn't know he was your kid."

"No one knows he's my son! No one knows he's Natalia's!"

"Natal--?"

"You really thought you knew her real name? That's cute."

The mask to Tony's suit clamped down, covering his angry face. Bucky just continued to glare through the eye sockets. "Let's just get this done."

They remained in that angry staring contest until Steve returned, shield strapped tightly to his arm and his aura of authority commanding them to get along for the sake of the mission. The trio crept through the Siberian base, and Bucky did his best to keep his head and straight and not get pulled back into what he remembered of torture and pain as he saw the things he once knew. The cell he and Peter shared, the cell the boy was thrown into whenever he disobeyed or the Winter Soldier was away on a mission, the room with the cage where they had first met, where Bucky had felt Peter's blood on his hands for the very first time.

"I got a heat signature," Stark suddenly informed, as they came close to a chamber that ever cell in Bucky's body screamed at him to not willingly walk into.

"How many?" Steve asked.

"One," Stark assured, a hint of relief in his voice.

Stark entered the room that Bucky knew well first. Then Steve, then Bucky with his gun up and ready to fire. His heart was wrenched even tighter in his chest as his eyes fell on the chair, then the cyro capsules.

He felt relieved when he saw a bullet hole between Josef's eyes. Then a twinge of jealousy--he had always wanted to do that himself.

The next capsule belonged to a softly-featured blond woman, with a cute little button nose and a perfectly curved cupid's bow. His steps faltered, landing him in his wide berth around the chair.

He'd recognize Yelena Belova anywhere.

How had he not remembered that the female soldier was Yelena--at the very top of the Black Widow Ops program, until she was recruited for another project. She disappeared one day, and the next time the Soldier saw her she was in the cage with him, raining rapid-fire punches (faster than she ever had before,) with a fury running through her blood. It didn't take him too long to know that she had been given a serum not too unlike his own.

At the end of the row, the last capsule was empty. He let it stay that way.

He wouldn't dare go near it willingly.

||||||||||

" _Help my wife. Please. Help_."

Bucky didn't watch the tape. He knew what happened - _the Soldier slipped his finger's through his_ _target's_ _hair, and lifted him up by the hold. The man's eyes widened in desperation; and, undeniably, shock._

_"Sergeant Barnes?"_

_The collateral damage let out a mournful,_ _guttural_ _call of, "Howard!" -_ he just white-knuckled his rifle, not able to take his wide, watering eyes off of Tony.

Tony. He wasn't Stark. Stark was the man he had dicked around in a workshop with every now and then, whose Expo he had attended the before he was shipped out to England with Dugan.

He killed Tony's parents. There was nothing he could ever do that would make up for that. The icy glare aimed at him right that second only confirmed it.

Howard's wife groaned, "Howard!" again, pain laced through her voice.

The Soldier hadn't been kind to her, but he had been efficient, and to Bucky that made up for some of it. He made the end quick. But he remembered the blood running down the curves of her face, the way her throat had felt under his hand -

He--alongside Tony--wouldn't ever be able to forgive himself. He killed parents, he killed children.

He didn't deserve a family. All he did was tear them apart. He thought of his son tucked into the quinjet wherever Steve had put him, and all he could think was _that child has blood on his hands because of me. That's my fault._

Tony was suddenly lunging at him, and Bucky jumped back. He raised the barrel of his gun, because, yes, he deserved whatever pain Tony intended for him to feel, but Steve didn't have to see that.

Steve grabbed Tony by the arm of his metal suit, pulling him back in with a cautious, "Tony. Tony."

The man's eyes reflected the gloomy and gold lighting around them, even more so as tears made their presence known. He turned back to Steve and asked, "Did you know?"

"I didn't know it was him."

Tony hissed, his grief flipping over into easy fury, "Don't bullshit me, Rogers! Did you know?"

"Yes."

With that, the two men snapped apart like a split rubber band. Tony's helmet fell back into face, and he swung a fist at Steve's cheek.

Bucky didn't think - he had no right to hurt Steve, he had no part in any of this - he just shot. His gunfire was easily deflected, and suddenly he was being smothered by the giant suit. A metal hand gripped his throat, picked him up, and the next thing he knew the room was turning and his feet were no longer on the floor, his gun forgotten somewhere below them.

They fell into the floor. Tony quickly got up and moved to slam his metal-cased foot down, and Bucky caught the blow with part of his left arm. He moved to juml again, but Steve's shield came out of nowhere. They hit each other back and forth, just knocking each other off their axis, and Bucky was only able to get to his feet before Tony grabbed him by the arms and flew them across the room, slamming him into the top of one of the capsules. His gauntlet was in his face, and Bucky wrapped his metal fingers around Tony's to twist his palm away from him, and squeezed to crush the repulser as it began to glow a pale blue. A rocket came out from a little further up the arm, sailing across the room and exploding. The capsules fell apart, the mechanics going up in flames and cement and metal falling to the floor.

Tony released him, but fell alongside him. The place they had just been got crushed, misshapen metal falling and sparks showering over them.

Bucky managed to scramble to his feet, and for a moment felt a jolt of relief when he found that Tony wasn't near him, probably underneath some of the pipework that had collapsed. His eyes found Steve on the other side of a large pipe and broken metal strands.

Steve threw a wild gesture at him and shouted, "Get out of here!"

That was more than enough motivation. He ran toward the first exit he could remember, a large cement silo chamber with a hinged top and platforms leading up to the opening at the very top. He ducked behind an obtuse corner, and a blast of energy went past him.

Behind him, he heard Steve trying to convince Tony of something, to not kill him, but he paid no mind to it. He hit a control panel, and the overhead door opened up, showing the grey sky. He launched himself up and grabbed onto a woven-metal platform, heaving himself up and pushing on.

Was he running for his life? No. He was going to get out of this because Steve shouldn't have to see him die twice. He was going to finish Zemo, then reunite with his son and--for once in his life--get them somewhere safe.

Hearing a sound eerily similar to a stuttering car engine, Bucky glanced down. Tony was trying to fly up to him, but the jets on his feet flickered. One of them was dead, sparks flying out into the air beneath him. Steve's shield smacked into him, and Tony dropped back down to the floor on impact. With even more urgency, Bucky jumped toward another platform, hands fitting around the edge. He swung himself up, and continued on to the next as he heard Tony's jets re-engage.

He was so close to the top. He pulled himself up onto the last platform, and darted up to the curves of metal that formed a ladder up the side, to lid-like shape that opened up.

As always, it was too good to be true. From being framed for bombing the UN when he finally had something good just for himself, to the android cutting them off from the quinjet in the airport.

Gunfire hit the hinge of the silo. Frustration welled in him, and he dropped back down onto the platform as the concrete cover fell back down.

He was trapped.

Tony was suddenly Tony beside him, and Bucky grabbed at a discarded metal pipe and swung at the suit. Metal clanged as he landed on the platform, and his arms wound around from behind Bucky's neck, and pulled him back so he was flush against the chest of the metal suit. He growled close to his ear, "Do you even remember them?"

He managed to say, because Tony had to know; "I remember all of them." It was the truth. He may not remember all the names or why the Winter Soldier was sent after them--but he remembered pulling triggers and getting blood on his hands, their faces as the pain set in, the life dying from their eyes because life, souls, were dwindling fires.

Bucky bent his knees and pushed them off the side of the platform. Tony kept his hold strong, and halfway down another weight hit them, sending them into the side of the silo. They all fell apart, and Bucky grunted when he fell to the concrete floor, his metal shoulder pushing further into the scarred flesh. But Steve and Tony tumbled down into a lower level, where the concrete had openings and snowy wind billowed inside. The two men laid there in a daze, until they managed to push themselves up. Steve stumbled, and said in a pained, light--but still so determined--voice, "This isn't gonna change what happened. If you kill him, Peter won't have a father - you'll be doing the same thing -!"

"I don't care. He killed my mom." The eyes in the Iron Man helmet blazed. As they locked on Bucky's pale blues, he knew his fate was sealed.


End file.
